


Under a Teardrop Moon

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: Choose Your Own Adventure [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Multi, Soulmate AU, Tengu!Izuna, Tengu!Madara, kitsune!Tobirama, sfw illustration in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 135,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Born into a long line of zenko kitsune, Tobirama is content with his role as celestial guardian along the tengu borders. The Senju have protected these shrines for centuries from any who have approached with unworthy hearts and turned them away without faltering. However, the tengu have grown bolder with each subsequent generation and a long overdue peace accord forces Tobirama to face some very uncomfortable truths.Like why his second tail has grown in Uchiha-black.And his third.(Soulmate AU)
Relationships: Senju Butsuma/Uchiha Tajima, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Izuna, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Izuna/Uchiha Madara, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Izuna/Uchiha Madara
Series: Choose Your Own Adventure [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593334
Comments: 301
Kudos: 882





	1. Tobirama's POV

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Naruto Rare Pair](https://narutorarepairweek.tumblr.com/) event on Tumblr, day 1, "the moment love hits."
> 
> This is a product of my third Choose Your Own Adventure fic writing extravaganza, hosted over on Discord. Much love to all of you who have been participating and supporting this fic along the way. I couldn't have done it without you! <3 <3 <3
> 
> (Updates weekly.)

Larger view:  <https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/621121366390980608/madaratobiramaizuna-triptych-made-for-a>   
  


The morning dawns light and crisp with the promise of spring to come. It hasn’t always been this way, but with the looming promise of peace among the Yōkai and the gods who rule them, the earth is starting to bloom anew.

Frost crunches under the pads of Tobirama’s paws as he mounts the first series of stairs leading back up to the mountain he has claimed as his home. It’s good to be immersed in the trees once more, where the kodama chitter and the leaves rustle his name—Hashirama’s doing of course. As if his Anija would ever allow him a true moment’s peace even in this secluded haven. Such a doting fool of a litter-mate.

Snorting fondly, Tobirama lifts his nose to scent the still air, finding that the gentle winding paths amongst the trees are just as pristine and unmolested as they were three days ago when he first took leave of his den to begin preparations for his coming of age ceremony.

One-hundred years.

It’s not a milestone he thought he would reach with such past unrest between the celestial forces of the world around them, but he’s managed with aplomb. Thanks to his innate kitsune intelligence, no wicked amanjaku or war-bred Tengu have figured out how to best his wards. The shrine he protects is immaculate, its torii tall and unbending. Too, the humans inhabiting the paddy-laden foothills continue to ply him with plum sake and Inari-zushi, which is more than can be said for the vast majority of his clan.

He’s been fortunate. Well-tended. 

And so, tonight he will assume human form for the first time and dance beneath the moon with the humans’ prayers stamped into each paw-print. He’ll sing to the stars so that their story is recorded in the constellations intertwined with his own. If he’s anywhere near as favored by Inari as his brother, sleep will bring with it another tail to add to his already substantial power set. All of these gifts given within the span of a few short hours.

Then, tomorrow he will have to weather the volley of smug, knowing glances as the elders of their clan—his father the only exception—all stew in the self-congratulatory mire of having been right. Opportunistic scavengers. ‘White omen of prosperity’ or not, Tobirama wishes they would kindly keep their expectations to themselves and usher in their own damned golden age if they want it so badly. He’ll claim the mantle of clan head to lighten his Anija’s burden in this world even if the thought of hosting Yōkai dignitaries makes his hackles rise. 

Regardless, what gifts tomorrow brings will come no matter how he detests the imagining. For now, he has his den to look forward to—a cozy burrow lined with feathers and unique trappings from the forest.

But first, a perfunctory patrol. 

Exhaling a long, steady plume of condensation, he snaps his teeth at dust motes and buries his frustrations in the burn that comes with dashing up the steep incline of stairs. Weathered stone slaps at the pads of his paws until the red torii rise up and bracket him from all sides. They pass in a series of flashing images—red, forest, red, trees—like the beginnings of a particularly artful illusion.

His ears stand tall, swiveling of their own accord to follow the echoes of his stride along the corridor. While humans typically find the climb to be taxing, his hindquarters quiver with exhilaration, not fatigue. Thoughts of his shrine—immaculate and inviting—urge him to push harder, go faster, until his tongue lolls and his eyes sting.

Past the main gate, the dance pavilion, through another set of torii, hurtling towards the inner shrine he holds so dear.

Only a few minutes later, he clears the summit and bounds into the air, flying more gracefully than a tengu could ever hope to. The swooping eves of his shrine beckon with their sacred shimenawa and stone lanterns. If his tails don’t sprout tonight, if his father’s brokerage of peace amongst the Yōkai falls through tomorrow, let this mountain remain, he prays fervently. 

It’s all he needs to be content.

Wind whipping through his fur, Tobirama lands in a clatter of claws on stone and races to peek inside of the collection box. A few metallic coins the humans favor and a generous bottle of plum wine, but no sumptuous rolls of flavorful rice and fried tofu. Only the smell of it lingers, flavoring the mild disappointment.

The theft is strange, but with the animals of the forest as glutinous as they are, not a precedent. His fuinjutsu wards are still intact and thrumming with the beat of his heart. Only those with zenko kitsune heritage or a complete lack of malice in their souls will be able to pass.

Bothersome squirrels. 

Letting go of the rim of the collection box, Tobirama settles his forelegs back onto the ground and presses his belly to the cool stone, panting softly.

While he’s not entirely eager to be surrounded by so much yapping and yowling tomorrow, his clan will ply him with fried tofu in such abundance that he’ll be round with it by the end. Still, he was hoping for a snack before hunkering down in his burrow for the afternoon. Unfortunate.

Collecting himself, he trots out of the shrine—stopping to nip at a leaf and set it back outside—and continues to pick his way around the mountain to his hidden den. A fitful nap in the warmth of the day and he’ll let the chirrup of crickets rouse him when it’s time to rise and dance into his new body.

Confident in his plan, Tobirama eases himself into the recess he’s dug out amongst the roots of a massive maple tree, tucks his nose under his tail, and allows sleep to take him.

***

It winds up requiring a little bit more coaxing than the gentle cadence of crickets stirring to wake Tobirama from his nap. Fortunately, the spirits of the forest that have found a regrettable friend in his anija are more than happy to finish the job. A flash of ghostly light and a sharp stick up the nose has Tobirama waking with a surprised yelp. He leaps straight out of the burrow, tail bristling and instantly alert, and flips around midair to give chase.

He lunges playfully at the kodama’s trailing tittering and they make a merry game of it until the setting sun filters down through the canopy in a wash of red and gold. Laughing uproariously in their odd language of flashing lights, the kodama flee just beyond the reach of his snapping teeth, beginning to fade once the sun sets.

Panting, Tobirama watches them go and yaps his goodbyes. He sends each one off with an acrobatic leap before they blink out entirely. Though he’ll never admit it even under threat of torture, Hashirama and his unlikely gaggle of forest spirits are uplifting in ways few things can compare. Tobirama would do anything in his power to preserve that innocence, even if it means taking over the role of heir apparent at the ascension ceremony. Once the sun hangs fat and heavy above the horizon, Hashirama will be free again to pursue his wild heart in roaming the world he loves.

Tobirama will ensure it.


	2. Tobirama's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I COMPLETELY FORGOT I HAD STARTED POSTING THIS ON AO3! lmaoooo Okay, weekly updates! The fic is like 60-70k in already. 
> 
> An illustration has been added to the first chapter. :D

Bracing himself with a long, sustained inhale, Tobirama picks his way down a nondescript game trail towards the clearing he knows will be best to practice his steps before the moon is watching in earnest. He’s an exemplary dancer—light on his paws, sinuous, and elegant. Even so, a little practice couldn’t hurt. Perhaps he’ll be gifted with more tails as a result of his commitment.

Yipping in anticipation, he bounds up a steep pile of boulders and kicks off of a tree trunk to go skittering off into the clearing on legs made of fox fire. The plants survive his benign heat, growing tall to cushion the pink pads of his paws. Each pounce is joyous, every twirl a delight. Were his clan to see him like this they’d think he’d lost his mind—trapped in the illusion of being a kit. But what’s not to celebrate when the moon is full and beginning to blush the faintest shade of pink? This is his coming of age, the culmination of his hundred year sojourn. He’s entitled to a moment free of reservation in the eyes of Inari Ōkami and their sire, Ōtsutsuki Indra. 

Let the zenko of the Senju clan usher in a new era through him. Let the humans’ prayers be heard. 

For them, he dances. Faster and faster, whirling in place as if chasing his tail, nipping at fireflies and rolling through the air like Naka through his lands. Around him the atmosphere begins to condense and glow with the might of his celestial magics.

Then something shifts. 

Small at first, growing larger and more ponderous as his steps lengthen. His next circuit sees him rising into the air of his own accord, balancing on his hindlegs as the small stones underfoot turn sharp. Without forelegs to catch himself, he falls on arms whose joints don’t move quite right and collapses with a pained yelp as the world closes in. Hands. That’s what these idiotic things are, frail, pitiful hands—ill-formed and unsightly. 

He continues to study the new growths with swelling horror, loosing a high-pitched whine all the while. At least his tail is intact, and his hind legs even if they’re elongated and strange. But everything else feels  _ wrong _ .

“First time in a human form, huh?” a light, melodious voice calls down from the boughs above. 

Trying to yowl his threat but choking on a half-formed scream instead, Tobirama attempts to scramble backwards and bring his teeth to bear. It’s pointless though when his mouth is so small and his fangs all but flat. His family makes being bipedal look so elegant and strong, a feat he can’t seem to reproduce right now. And in this moment Inari’s greatest gift may well turn out to be Tobirama’s greatest misstep. 

He digs his claws into the grass and violently backpedals until he can get his hindquarters under him. Leaves slick with gathering frost offer little purchase and he goes down again so hard his arm falls numb from the elbow to his fingertips. This is it. This will be his end. There will be no peace accord, no ceremony before visiting dignitaries, no—

“Hey, breathe, Snowflake! No need to get all worked up over it,” the disembodied voice above announces as a substantial weight drops to the ground before him. The yōkai lands solidly and sinks down onto his haunches with all of the grace that Tobirama currently lacks. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the tengu trills with what Tobirama interprets to be an attempt at a disarming smile. And it _ is _ a tengu—massive wings swept back and upraised as if to shield them from the moon’s gaze, talons digging deep into the forest loam, and a face more pretty and delicate than handsome in Hashirama’s way. The Yōkai’s blue haori reflects the moonlight and sets his pale skin aglow against the backdrop of his pitch black ponytail.

Everything about his posture is open and inviting, an equally pretty lie.

Butsuma may espouse the merits of interspecies alliance, but Tobirama has lived to see the terror these predatory birds bring to his human supplicants, burning the fields and salting their rice paddies. Until tomorrow—when the peace accord demands it—he won’t play host to a monster. 

“Your kind is not welcome here,” Tobirama spits out with his awkward human tongue. 

The tengu’s eyes light up as red as the moon will become in another few hours and his smile gains a more honest quality. “Oh, you’re  _ precious _ ,” he croons, spreading his wings a little wider. “But you’ve got to keep your tongue down a little more on the vowels. Otherwise it comes out all garbled.”

Swallowing past the fury building in his chest, Tobirama flexes his fingers to regain feeling and pushes himself up into a crouch. A well-aimed lunge should put him on the right trajectory to tear the bastard’s throat clean out. “Leave before I  _ make _ you,” he enunciates slowly, snarling up at that clever, knowing grin. 

Feathers rustle, but the tengu doesn’t show an ounce of unease. 

“Ah, ah, fox. You’ll have to get better acquainted with that gorgeous body of yours before you’re good enough to challenge me.” He laughs, a songbird’s titter. “You’ll figure it out soon enough. You danced too early is all. Indra’s eye isn’t full enough to bring all of your pieces together yet.”

Incorrect deity aside, that makes…a surprising amount of sense. Touka had delineated the specific timing and sequence of steps that were to be taken. Perform the Dance of the Cherry Blossoms when the moon crests the treeline. Sing to the stars and follow their guidance until the tamped down grass in the clearing shows the path connecting the nine points of the constellation belonging to the great kitsune. Once the night grows long and moonlight shines down from directly above, flow through the acrobatics of the Dance of Joy to call Inari’s blessings down from the heavens. 

In his high spirits, he had apparently made a miscalculation. 

“And how precisely would you know the workings of the kami, tengu?” Tobirama snarls, pitching his voice low. The yōkai’s eyes flutter, but Tobirama doesn’t think it’s in fear. 

“Fire’s balls, you’re prickly, aren’t you?” the tengu snorts instead of answering, tossing his head. “Come on. Even if you’re going to be an ass about it, I’m feeling generous tonight.” Rising up slowly so as not to startle, he reaches down, offering an open hand. 

Tobirama eyes it suspiciously. 

“It’s fine. I’m not here to steal your mountain and I’m not going to hurt you,” the tengu insists as he waggles his fingers pointedly, “but the way I see it, you’ve got to finish your ceremony before you’re stuck half-undone. I can see the kinks in your chakra network from here. Lucky for you, I’m a  _ spectacular _ dance partner.”

By the heavens he doesn’t want to trust, but what the glorified chew-toy said is right—Tobirama can feel the discordant notes of the interrupted ritual in his newly elongated bones. With this cursed human body he’ll never make it through the ritual alone. 

Hissing between clenched teeth, he slaps his hand into the palm provided and slings himself up onto his still fox-like hind legs. His center of gravity is off and the tail he uses for counterbalance is inset at a different angle on his spine. A recipe for disaster. However, before he inevitably goes down again, there’s a warm arm wrapped around his waist and the softness of silk against his exposed side.

Unused to casual touch, the tengu’s boldness has him all but coming out of his skin.

“There you go, nice and easy. I’m Izuna, by the way,” his mysterious benefactor murmurs right into a sensitive ear. It pulls back and clamps tightly to Tobirama’s skull of its own accord, much to Izuna’s obvious delight. 

“I don’t care what your name is. You will remove your hands from my person,  _ now _ ,” Tobirama asserts, pushing away. His palms meet nothing but muscle as solid as his own. A warrior, then. 

Rounding his lips on a whistle, Izuna lets him go, but hovers close enough that his body heat continues to fight back the chill of the night. The opalescent sheen of his wings glitters where they flutter briefly, then arc up high, black against the equally black night. “And how do you expect us to dance if I don’t touch you?” he observes, words lifted in a teasing lilt. 

Tobirama rewards his gentle barb with a flat expression. 

“Okay, okay, fine.” Izuna pauses, rubbing at the line of his own jaw. “How about you wear my haori so we’re not technically touching. Good enough compromise for you, Ice Princess?” 

The Senju clan is rarely ever clothed except when meeting with dignitaries from other yōkai clans—what benefit would there be to restricting the shifting between forms? The thought of binding himself in cloth is bizarre, though the blue silk would be a fine offering with the way it shimmers in the moonlight like the surface of a river. 

He wonders if it’s as soft as it looks. 

“That would be satisfactory,” Tobirama snaps, much to Izuna’s amusement. If he still had hackles, they would be raised just to take some of the air out of this ridiculous tengu’s wings. 

Still, he accepts the garment, pleased by the blue fade that matches his foxfire so perfectly. The weight of the silk eases the instinctive ache to retrieve his pelt from across the glade. It’s not fur, but it’s warmed by body heat none the less.

“Ready?” 

Grinning mischievously, Izuna drops his wings to rest flush against his back and dares to replace his arm about Tobirama’s waist. When no attack is immediately forthcoming, he takes a single sliding step, pulling Tobirama along with him and aborting any further commentary. 

Tobirama stumbles along uneasily in the wake of the tengu’s enthusiasm, paws sinking into the depressions formed by the slighter creature’s talons, given no choice in the matter with as weak as his humanoid body is. Another slide. One hop. Two. Suddenly, the anger leaves him completely as realization hits. These are the next steps in the Dance of Joy. How this ridiculous tengu could possibly know such a secret, time-honored tradition eludes him.

“How?” he begins, only for his question to be lost to the wind as he’s held close and swept into a whirling spin that takes them through the next milestone of the moon’s path through the sky. 

Izuna, as he claimed, is a consummate dancer. His body moves with the same grace Tobirama feels in his kitsune form, lithe and supple with fire in his heart. The massive wings between his shoulders never once impede the grace of his movement as he partners Tobirama through the ritual most sacred to Inari. 

Every step takes him closer to wholeness. He can feel it in his bones. And something of his awe must show on his face, because between leaps, Izuna’s smile softens around the edges as he watches with those peculiar, spinning tomoe. 

Like this, the tengu is almost tolerable.

Like this, he’s almost worthy of Tobirama’s time. 

“See? I told you I was good,” Izuna cheeps for no other reason than to pander for compliments. 

A shame he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut so Tobirama can immerse himself completely in the rare pleasure of a night spent with company other than the kodama. Even worse, this close he can smell the savory remnants of inariage on Izuna’s breath. 

The thieving  _ bastard _ .

And perhaps he’s a consummate example of kitsune territorialism, but those inarizushi were  _ his _ . The epiphany has him clutching Izuna’s biceps in a bruising grip and digging in his paws. The pleasantness of the night shatters abruptly.

“Stop.  _ Stop _ ! You would dare to eat Inari’s offerings?” he accuses. 

“Nope,” Izuna chirps without missing a beat. It’s telling how quickly he replies to the seeming non sequitur, brushing it off as he tries to lead them back into the final choreography to no avail. 

“You stole from the collection box!” Tobirama insists. 

“I would never.”

“I’m going to tear out your entrai—”

“Whoa, save the filthy promises for the second date,” Izuna cuts in slyly. His hands grow bold on Tobirama’s hips, daring and invasive. With his newfound leverage, Izuna dives back into the final stretch of leaps and kicks until that final note of rightness settles deep under Tobirama’s skin—fire and ice wrapped up in all of the trappings of the world.

The slight of pilfered offerings temporarily on hold, they share breath for a long moment, coming back down from the heavens. Even this close to what is essentially an enemy, Tobirama can’t help but feel at peace for the first time in a century. Whole and satiated. However, the waking dream can only last so long. The clever fingers hooked around his hips slip back further on a trajectory that has Tobirama’s upper lip beginning to curl. 

At the first suggestion of talons tracing along the base of his tail, Tobirama slams his palms against Izuna’s chest and sends him tumbling to the ground in an explosion of feathers, silk, and flailing limbs. For a creature so well versed in dance, he goes down like a stone. 

“The fuck was that for?” Izuna screeches from his undignified sprawl, “I thought we were having a moment!” He continues to squawk impotently as he flaps his wings in some inexplicable cross between a threat display and a mating invitation. 

Tobirama’s not entirely certain about the accuracy of that translation. Though he’s studied the tengu from scrolls on the subject, their body language is too complex and alien to grasp fully without direct observation—something he has little interest in pursuing. 

“You had no right to touch me.”

Crass, low-brow monsters the lot of them.

“I’ve been touching you for like the past hour!” Izuna shrieks back, brow furrowed as his talons curl reflexively. 

“No, you were touching the garment,” Tobirama asserts. Before Izuna can let loose the diatribe he’s obviously building towards, Tobirama calls forth his foxfire and threads his suiton through it, holding the power before him menacingly. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.” There’s no hesitation, no leniency in the coldness of his tone.

“What, no ‘thank you’ for the dance? You’d still be pissing sideways if I hadn’t come along,” Izuna squawks in imagined offense—a claim that tries Tobirama’s already hair-thin patience. Apparently it’s something even an ignorant bird can pick up on, because Izuna slowly rises to his feet without voicing another complaint or worse, an attempt at reasoning with him.

“Fine,” he hisses, “At least give me my haori back.”

“No,” Tobirama decides, activating his wards without humoring the tengu’s advances for even another moment. Chakra rushes up through his paws and branches out through his body in a panoply of power the likes of which he’s never felt before. The mountain thrums with his might and in a blink, Izuna is gone, his wide-eyed surprise cemented in Tobirama’s memory.

Serves the bastard right for touching his tail. 

The events of the night have left him exhausted, and so he retrieves his pelt from across the glade and begins the lonely trek back to his den. It’s much slower, more arduous going without his fox form. Now he has only this ungainly body with too much bared skin. 

_ A mating display indeed _ , Tobirama internally scoffs as he glares down at the blue waterfall of silk.

He didn’t have the time to appreciate it properly when he first put it on, but now on the hike back to his den he finds himself entranced. Rose gold stars bloom along the neckline in such fine, well-crafted embroidery that he wonders if the thread is magically wrought. It certainly sparkles enough to be. He licks his lips and runs the pad of his thumb across an unfolding galaxy, careful not to prick the fabric with his claws. 

His humans have always been gracious in their offerings, but never before have they gifted him something so lavish and he’s not quite sure how to feel about his greatest gift coming from a tengu. Pragmatic though he generally is, being a kitsune brings with it a certain propensity for gathering unique, pretty things to line his den, and none have come close to this glorious, pilfered haori. Perhaps stolen is too strong a concept—borrowed indefinitely sounds more appropriate. 

Semantics aside, it’s his now. 

Finally coming upon his den, Tobirama sinks down to sit next to it, too big to fit now that he’s shifted into this strange humanoid vessel. 

Cocking his head, he pulls the garment off in order to turn it over and pluck some of the loose feathers from the slits where Uchiha Izuna’s massive wings rested. The tengu’s scent is mild—like the sweet flesh of a freshly cracked acorn—and Tobirama unabashedly breathes it in, pressing the downy feathers to his cheek. They’re equally as luxurious as the haori itself, so he discretely reaches down to tuck them into his den in a place of honor next to the hawk pinions he’s collected over the decades. 

Tengu might be foul, war-mongering sadists, but by Inari they’re bound tight in the trappings of loveliness. 

Tobirama pauses in his appreciation, ears flicking towards the sound of a flying squirrel swooping high overhead, then gathers the silk up into his lap. Tengu or squirrel, this will not be a repeat of the missing tofu fiasco. He bares his teeth up at the boughs above him until they fall still once more. 

The only way to truly keep his prize safe at this juncture is to wear it, of course. However, with no knowledge of how to motor plan the dexterity of his newly formed fingers, stitching the long flaps together at the back will require outside assistance and to wear it as it is seems inappropriate. To that end, he fills his lungs, tilts back his chin, and lets out a long, piercing yip. Or at least he tries to. The sound that comes out is hideous. 

Miraculously, it still manages to work. 

From behind the boles of trees, a small squadron of kodama peek out at him with unblinking voids for eyes, chittering all the while. In this new form of his, Tobirama sees them as strange caricatures of human young with featureless, too-large heads and skin as white as his own. Gone is the gentle glow and the pulsing light of their humor. Instead, they wind their heads to the side and release them to bob rapidly in a manner that makes it quite clear they’re laughing at him.

Vexatious little monsters. 

“I need he—” he tries, recalling the tengu’s advice on keeping his tongue flat for certain sounds, “hel—” Another round of rattling heads is his reward. Frustrated, he snaps his teeth and holds up the haori as if that will somehow get his point across. And it does. The kodama fall silent, toddling closer on their tiny legs. There’s a general sense of awe that he can feel through the stillness of the forest around him, then Hashirama’s spirits begin to fade out one by one. 

“No,” Tobirama barks, brow furrowing. “Come back!” They’ve never denied him like this. But, before his shock can turn into frustration, the largest of the spirits vanishes and reappears on his knee in a gentle fall of leaves. It pets the river of silk reverently and tugs it away with an admonishing jangle of its head.

What that means, Tobirama has no way to interpret, so he lets his brother’s minder do as it pleases. 

Light coalesces around the kodama’s fingerless hands, unspooling into a thousand skeins hair-thin and so delicate they disappear at certain angles. Immediately, the spirit sets its celestial thread upon the garment. The long flaps the tengu’s wings were fitted between come together seamlessly of their own accord, mended so well the haori looks as if it were cut from one continuous bolt of silk. Eyes wide and lips parted, Tobirama reaches out to touch the kodama’s work, only to have the little spirit tear the fabric away, tsking. 

What’s left to do, Tobirama has no idea. It looks whole and hale to him. But then the kodama disappears only to coalesce once more on his shoulder. It’s little foot kicks him on the neck pointedly until he shakes his shoulders to throw it off. “What do you want?” he asks, exasperated. 

As usual, he receives no answer, only another pointed volley of kicks, then finally an insistent tug on his hair. Sighing long-sufferingly, Tobirama moves towards the direction the kodama pulls him and yelps when his pelt is yanked out from beneath his legs and upends him completely. Damn his Anija! Tomorrow morning when he sees Hashirama again, he’s going to drill some common decency into the bark floating between his fox ears. Maybe then he won’t rub off all of his poor manners onto the supposedly docile spirits of the forest. 

Incensed, Tobirama pushes himself up from the dirt to whip around and…stare. In the space between heartbeats, the kodama has sewn his pelt to the collar of the haori like a particularly fine mantle. Thick, white fur draped so artfully about the blue fabric it stands out like the white caps of river rapids. His annoyance immediately vanishes as his chest aches. It’s stunning. The most beautiful thing he’s seen in the world of men and yōkai alike. With this, no being will be able to mistake him for anything other than the reincarnation of the kyūbi no kitsune his clan claims he is. The peace talks will be backed by the surety of an omen-made-man dancing for the foreign dignitaries’ with divine providence. 

His paws will strike the hardwood floor of the dance pavilion and bring up blue foxfire to match.

Tobirama’s stomach clenches. He’s too stoic a kitsune to cry, but even he’s moved to the point the world wavers in his vision. “Thank you,” he whispers, then says it again once his voice is strong enough to carry. Pleased, the kodama prances off a ways and looks back over its shoulder in a manner that can only be interpreted as smug. It’s head rotates a full circuit as it fades out completely and Tobirama can’t help but feel the brightness of Hashirama’s smile in its laugh.

Blinking quickly to ease the burning in his eyes, Tobirama slowly climbs to his feet and dons the lovely haori. Cool silk caresses his human skin and brushes the fur of his hindquarters with greater intimacy than he’s ever felt, even from the Uchiha’s crass groping. The remembrance brings a flush to his cheeks, mercilessly strangled back down. Kami willing, he’ll never have to see the idiot bird again. 

Before the thought has the chance to fester, Tobirama feels a tingling at the base of his spine where the ghost of Izuna’s talons still lingers—an insistent pressure that’s not quite painful, but nor is it pleasant. It’s rather soon for the change to begin taking effect. Surely the moon should be higher for him to come into his power properly. Even so, his celestial haori flares out behind him as another bottle-brush tail sprouts from his body and spiritual magic floods in to take its place, powerful and arresting. 

He throws his head back and arches against the flood of chakra as it pours into him like a suiton jutsu and consumes just as wholly. Red moonlight inundates his eyes as star song captures his heart and leaves the marks of Inari’s blessing stark on his face. Then, a shockwave slams through the forest and he collapses like a marionette.

Omen indeed. 

Exhausted, Tobirama catches his breath with his cheek pressed to the litter of the forest floor. He finally gathers the energy to push up on shaky arms. Tucking his legs in close with a groan, he drags his new appendage up over his hip to take full measure of it. 

It’s certainly a healthy, powerful tail, but the color takes him aback. He knows that pattern of black and shifting opalescence. It’s far too distinctive for him to ever forget. 

Inari save him, his soulmate is a Tengu, and he’s only ever met the one. 


	3. Madara's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the worst, don't @ me. lmao Yeah, I forgot it was on AO3 again. I'll endeavor to not do that and make a habit of Sunday posting. XD

Madara squints and turns his face into the bite of the wind, taking in the sight of his village at rest and letting it fill him with resolve. Staggered rows of aeries stretch off into the darkness of the cliff-face, lined with thatch walls and internally aglow with lamp-light for those tengu who, like himself, can’t still their minds long enough to fall asleep.

Tomorrow morning they will meet with the kitsune clan, playacting at amity in the name of a diplomatic union. With a peace treaty in place, tengu chicks will be safe to coast the thermals of fire country once more without fear of iron arrows grounding them. Too, the usurping humans will finally be kept in line by their zenko handlers. In theory, at least. He’ll have to see it in practice before he’s be able to take Butsuma’s illusionary promises to heart. Still, hope makes for a pleasant pressure in his chest where before there was only anger.

Flexing on a particularly powerful down stroke, Madara rides the sky up into the light of the moon and rolls to feel it caress his front. The resonating power of Indra’s eye is soothing, coaxes him into a relaxation he hasn’t visited in months. Like this, he almost feels like a tengu again instead of the frenzied, war-torn general he’s been forced to become.

There’s so much blood on his talons.

Humans raiding nests, smashing eggs, and encroaching on the borders like swarms of ants. The constant escalation has proven to be too heavy a burden. Fortunately for his ominously creaking gunbai handle, his father, Tajima, will soon guide them into a golden age, one without strife or suffering where foxes cavort paw in talon and Izuna learns to shit gold ingots. Or so Madara’s gathered. All a load of hawk pellets if you ask him.

He scoffs, his derision mostly for show and immediately lost to the wind. It’s too difficult to reconcile his very fallible father with the mythical omen and harbinger of good the elders insist he is.

Fledgling tales, the lot of it. At least they’re more pleasant than those he tells Kagami, he supposes. 

An indeterminate amount of time passes where he finds himself content to ruminate on the imaginings of peace while circling in a series of long, effortless glides. Clouds pelt his shoulders with the sting of ice-crystals. His kimono slaps his thighs where it’s become heavy and wet with condensation.

And still he smiles into the wind.

After a time, the last chill before spring begins to seep into his bones even with his heightened body temperature. A shift of his massive pinions has him banking down in a smooth, slow trajectory towards his nest. Amazing how a home filled with such love awaits him even after the choices he’s been forced to make as heir apparent. 

On the landing pad next to the entrance of his aerie a still figure waits in the shadows, only moving when Madara draws close. Madara whips his wings to slow his descent, sending up powerful volleys of air. Before his talons even touch the well-worn wood, his father crosses a patch of moonlight and comes to a standstill before him in nothing more than a billowing sleeping yukata. He plants himself in the center of the platform with crossed arms and a sour expression, heedless of Madara’s momentum. 

“Ah, good. I need you to go find your brother,” Tajima says in lieu of a greeting when he finally touches down.

Snorting, Madara reaches back to release the thong on his flying braid and shakes his head until in unravels of its own accord. “Funny how he’s ‘my brother’ when he’s done something wrong and your son’ every other time,” he says dryly, grimacing as he plucks at his sodden kimono.

Tajima shoots him a crooked grin and forgoes his stoic act to step around and help him release the leather buckles of his flying harness. The metal fasteners clink and jangle for a brief moment, then the pressure releases and Madara feels like he can breathe again. The protective cuirass is great for stabilizing his pectorals for extended flights, but Indra’s balls is it restrictive—much like his father’s overbearing love sometimes.

“Ah, but  _ you _ are always my son,” Tajima retorts and it’s not hard to see where Izuna inherited his mischief. He cups Madara’s cheeks and buries his talons in the mass of unruly hair, presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. “Regardless, it’s not anything of concern. I would simply prefer the comfort of having all of my fledglings under one patch of sky before I retire for the evening.”

“Of course, Tousan,” Madara agrees without any intention of following through. Izuna will return when Izuna is ready to return and no amount of reconnaissance will change that fact. They both know it. Madara thinks his father simply enjoys the reassurance of being lied to from time to time.

Blinking his milky eyes slowly, Tajima gives him a light pat on the cheek. 

“Good chick.” 

He turns to leave, but pauses to look back from the rope bridge leading off further up the cliff face and towards his own quiet aerie. Outlined by the darkness of outcroppings, he makes for an imposing sight—an old, insurmountably strong daitengu with the kiss of Indra’s favor lining each flight feather in red. From a distance his plumage harkens images of the scales of celestial dragons from the before-times. Tonight though, here in their village, he’s not the fabled Dragon’s Claw, he’s simply Uchiha Tajima, the doting hen. “Give my other son my love when he happens to amble in,” he jibes, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening as he resists a smile. “And rest fitfully. We have an important day tomorrow.”

Madara nods sharply. What was the point of this visit then?

Fighting a smile himself, he snaps the lingering moisture from his flight feathers and works them until they’re dry.

Inside his home he can smell the familiar scents of down and burning wick, and surely enough, his own informally adopted chick is there curled up in the central nest of pillows and linens. The room is spacious, as most nest sites are, yet the two tone walls in his aerie speak of recent expansion. With as many chicks as he tends to accumulate—his brother included in that number—it was a necessary decision. 

He steps into his aerie and slides the door shut softly, careful not to wake Kagami from what looks to be a deep sleep. The chick’s talons twitch, his little, downy wings fluttering with each exhale. Such a sweet sight to return to—such a powerful reminder to persevere. Madara picks his way to the closet he shares with Izuna and changes into a threadbare yukata with tattered hems and holes around the neckline. Izuna has tried to destroy the hideous thing time and time again, but it’s  _ comfortable _ .

There are few enough comforts in life that he should at least be afforded this one.

Satisfied and content in the feeling of being dry and warm once more, he makes his way to the nest and insinuates himself into the open pocket at Kagami’s back. His sweet little shadow murmurs in his sleep and settles once more. From beneath the mounds of blankets on his other side there’s another round of annoyed cheeps, then a slightly softer answer from deeper within a pile of pillows.

Indra take him, he doesn’t know why these chicks gravitate towards him so strongly that they abandon their own parents in favor of his aerie, but he’ll take them. He’ll take and brood them all. Trilling softly in return, Madara coaxes two more little Uchiha into his lap—dark hair and opalescent wings so full of down he wonders if they aren’t half kitsune. These are his people. All of them. He and his otouto may be outliers what with their bizarre red eyes and propensity for fire, but these are  _ his _ . 

Every gentle flutter against his thighs only reaffirms that fact. After the ceremony there will be peace no matter how many skulls he has to bash together.

“Tomorrow I will make you proud,” he tells them in a voice so low it rolls.

Leaning against the wall at his back, he watches the younglings sleep long enough for the lamp wick to burn low. Smoke slowly curls up from the nearby chabudai and flows away through the roof vents, dancing through the still air and reflecting the red glow of Indra’s eye.

“Tomorrow,” he reaffirms. 

The room dims.

Just as his eyes begin to grow heavy, there’s a jarring impact on the landing pad followed by frantically scraping talons. He jolts upright. Pressure immediately builds behind his eyes as his chakra heeds the call, ready and willing to destroy whatever threat dares to burst through his door. Another crash. Cursing. Then suddenly Izuna stumbles in with absolutely none of the grace he’s so well known for.

“Nii-san!” Izuna trills as he stumbles in half-dressed and looking rather worse for wear. Long trails of hair stick out at odd angles from his ponytail, emphasizing the equally dark soot marks littering what’s left of his tattered kosode. Even his wings are so coated in ash that there’s little indication of the color beneath. 

He looks like he went to battle with a campfire—possibly won if his broad grin is any indication.

“I think I’m in love!” he announces grandly.

Because of course he is.

Tamping down the flood of adrenaline, Madara manages to calm his racing heart and collect himself without resorting to fratricide, though it’s a near thing. Izuna’s mischief is too deeply seated for such a vicious, exceedingly intelligent tengu. He might benefit from a death or two to take the edge off of that impulsiveness, Madara thinks acerbically.

“Oh? And what are you in love with now?” he asks, trying to quiet Kagami’s startled cheeping by preening his little wings. They shudder and flap under his hands, finally settling after a couple of gentle scritches.

Izuna takes the question as the invitation it’s not and hops over in a cloud of soot, fluffing his feathers so dramatically he looks more chick-like than the hatchlings draped over Madara’s lap do. Why he ever took this man as a mate he has no idea. Well, maybe a small one.

“Not what, who! I think I finally found our incubator!” Izuna chirrups, rolling the sound in the back of his throat.

Madara inhales sharply. “Don’t tease me, otouto.”

They’re not quite right, him and his brother. Fire sings in their blood and their eyes are built for more than long-distance binocular vision—far more. The illusions they craft are legendary within their clan and the only other souls to have that knowledge have been made to take the shinigami’s hand with extreme prejudice. Growing up in such a close knit community eased the burden of their otherness, raised them up to be the champions their people needed and at the exact moment they needed them most.

Still, being so much stronger has always been rather…unsettling. Tajima won’t speak of it, only sigh fondly and wave them off when asked, slamming his heart shut like a steel trap if pressed further.

And while Madara would typically be content to let his father have his secrets, it’s been exceedingly frustrating to brood over the chicks of the village without being afforded insight as to why he and Izuna can’t incubate a clutch of their own. Of all of his old wounds, that’s the one that aches the most.

“I would never tease about that! You know I wouldn’t,” Izuna chirps, immediately contrite. He kneels down next to the nest, careful not to drop ash on the linens, and leans in to nuzzle beneath Madara’s jaw. “He’s perfect, Nii-san, and he’s filled with fire like us. But he can turn it off, too. He’ll be at the ceremony tomorrow, I’m sure of it. Then you’ll see.”

Too moved to speak further, Madara simply grunts and turns his head away. It’s okay, though, they’re well-versed in each other’s love languages. Another mate to fill the void would be...something they’ve both yearned for for a very long time. 

“I suppose so,” he concedes after a moment of unadulterated silence.

Suddenly, a muted cheep rises up between them, snapping up both Izuna and Madara’s undivided attention in one fell swoop.

Kagami yawns hugely and blinks up with Uchiha-black eyes. “Can you go away now? I was sleeping,” he says, making as if to lie his head back down on the pillow of Madara’s thigh.

While typically there would be a surge of affection searing through his chest at the sight, Madara knows what’s about to happen. He’s seen this scenario play out every single night since Kagami first discovered their nest. He wishes they could save it for tomorrow, if only because the ceremony will require every scrap of rest he can cobble together.

Ignorant to Madara’s plight, Izuna lashes his wings out and arcs them up in a threat display so aggressive it’s made fully grown tengu piss themselves in fear before. Ash swirls on the eddies of air he creates and floats its way up into the roof vault to be sucked out of the vents. Baring his teeth, he slams his fists into the hardwood floor and leans so far into Kagami’s space that their noses touch.

Filthy and bedraggled, he still makes for a terrifying sight. 

“I will  _ pluck _ you, usurper,” he says without inflection, all the more menacing for not raising his voice.

“I don’t know what that means but you’re just mad that Madara likes me best,” Kagami shoots back, unruffled.

He’s incorrect, though. Madara likes no one and nothing in this instance and wants to pluck them both bare, actually. One night of peace is all he requires.  _ One _ . Instead he’s surrounded by nothing but chicks, and one in particular who should know better.

Izuna presses forward until their noses squish and their eyes cross. “Excuse me? Name one thing you have on me.”

“I’m the fluffiest!”

This is ridiculous. The script may change, but the intent is the same night after night. “Try again, he’s sufficiently fluffy himself,” Madara interjects in a dry attempt to curtail any further theatrics. Instead it backfires spectacularly.

Izuna reels back on his knees, clutching at his hair and sending it even further into disarray. “Look at what you’ve done!” he screeches, “the secret is out and now my reputation is ruined! Ruined, Kagami!”

Snorting on a bright little peep, Kagami sticks out his tongue, obviously well aware of the armor his cuteness affords him.

Thankfully, it appears to be an excellent defense against Izuna’s ridiculous playacting as well. His wings shudder with the effort of keeping them from flattening into a more joyous spread. Trying to cling to his faux anger and failing miserably, Izuna finally gives in to the laughter building in his chest. He scoops Kagami up in a flash of feathers and soot and rubs his filthy face all over the chick’s hair despite his impotent protests.

“Where did you learn to be so cheeky, Eggshell?” Izuna chuckles, punctuating his question with a gentle sound halfway between a whine and a warble. It’s a call unique to their line and sung by their father only after particularly successful hunts—when Madara stands before him with fire in his eyes and gore dripping from his talons.

The parallel is discomfiting.

“Stop! You’re gross!”

“Yeah, yeah. The feeling’s mutual, brat.”

Despite their bantering, it’s obvious how similar a cloth they’re cut from. Madara watches his brother, his mate, nip at the tips of Kagami’s curly hair and thinks that if he can offer this raw sort of affection to a hatchling not born of his blood, that their own chicks are going to be the most doted upon creatures in all of Fire Country.

More and more he finds it’s a scene he’s eager to make happen.

Two more pairs of eyes peek up owlishly at the spectacle. However, keeping still to ward off Izuna’s attention is just as ineffective as it always is. As soon as Kagami climbs his shoulders to settle between his wings like a particularly cherubic gargoyle, Izuna’s brow furrows and he spears the remaining chicks with laser focus.

Kagami blows a raspberry as his glorified mount squats down to chuck the nearest one under the chin, turning their chubby face this way and that. “Hey, I know you,” Izuna determines, tapping the chick’s forehead gently. “You’re Hikaku’s spawn, right? Climb on up and I’ll get you back home, too.”

The chick looks to Madara tearfully, but he’s long ago built up a tolerance to bullshit in all of its forms. Even so, he can’t help but gift him a pat on the back and nudge him along with a soft snort. Forlorn and rejected, he hops up onto Izuna’s thigh and allows himself to be tucked like an indignant sack of grain.

Mission two thirds accomplished, Izuna cocks his head at the last chick, perplexed.

“Now you I don’t recognize.” A pause to consider. “New in town?” he asks with a musical lilt.

Sputtering and gesturing at his sibling, the chick manages to flap hard enough to gain a couple inches of altitude. “We look the same!”

“Are you sure?”

Indra save him, Madara is two seconds away from becoming an only brother.

“We’re twins!” the chick cries. Because yes, they are, and they’ve graced this nest for years, much to Hikaku’s mounting impatience. 

“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it this time. Hop on up, you little feather duster. I’m tired and I’m reclaiming my nest,” Izuna announces.

As if Madara himself isn’t exhausted from being awoken by all of this nonsensical posturing. Finally free of his three little anchors, he arranges his pillows and blankets back into their strategic mounds and makes himself comfortable beneath the thickest of the comforters. It caresses his wings and he can’t resist flexing them in and out just to feel his feathers glide like silk against it. Soon these small comforts will be a regular occurrence.

Soon he’ll have Izuna returned to him as a permanent fixture at his back—lithe body snaked around him without those cold mission-nights between. The older he gets, the less gracefully he tolerates being alone, Madara finds.

Though he can’t see them, he feels Izuna’s bonfire chakra move outside and off towards the village proper. He listens to their continued argument through the thin walls—

“It’s my nest too you know.”

“Don’t feed me hawk pellets. My brother, my mate, my nest. Don’t make me fight you for it.”

—then nothing as sleep finally takes him with a smile.


	4. Madara's POV

Morning dawns golden bright and far too early.

The only silver lining lies in the soft, familiar press of Izuna’s wings against Madara’s sides and the rich fall of hair against his face. It’s a comforting scent, this smell of forests, and flame, and home. Underneath that though he can sense the subtle, discordant note of stardust—stark and cold where it lies just under his mate’s skin.

Madara blinks blearily and nuzzles closer, catching an inexplicable flash of red under his cheek. 

“‘Zuna,” he grunts, “what did you do to your feathers?”

His question falls on deaf ears, because of course it does. One of Izuna’s many talents lies in sleeping well past the point of propriety. It’s part of his charm, Madara has to continually remind himself.

A charm he’s since grown immune to.

He uses the arm he has draped over Izuna’s waist to pull them flush, tracing the solid line of abdominals through his sleeping yukata. His otouto is a beautiful tengu, graceful and strong. Certainly strong enough to regrow some non-essential feathers.

Without remorse, Madara pinches the light trail of down meandering along his stomach to more interesting places and  _ twists _ . The reaction is immediate. A sharp hawk’s cry and Izuna is awake and thrashing. The one massive wing that’s not currently serving as Madara’s impromptu futon spreads wide and flaps so violently the thatch walls shudder in their reinforced frames. The hardwood moans with each slap against the floor and Madara can only laugh—deep and rolling. 

Izuna’s elbow shoots back with the precision and speed of a war-trained soldier, but Madara is already well-versed in his tactics. He twists just enough to let the blow skate over his ribs and rams his forearm up into the crook of it to trap him.

“Knock it off, Otouto,” he commands once he’s wrested back control, though it’s hard to put any authority into it when he’s still far too amused by the bald spot he knows he’s plucked. It’s not that Izuna is overly vain—living with Tajima as their father certainly curtailed the appeals of that natural tengu trait—so much as he’s orderly to a fault. All things in their place, all people fulfilling their predetermined roles.

The missing feathers are going to drive him off a cliff.

“Are you quite finished?”

“Nii-san?!” Izuna shrieks in offense once reality sinks in. “You know you can’t surprise me like that!” One more anxious flick and his wing finally resettles, sandwiching Madara between silken feathers. It’s adorable the way his mate trembles with residual adrenaline.

“Then maybe you should learn to wake up on time,” Madara croons as he kisses his neck, the only apology he’s willing to offer after being so rudely awakened the night before.

“Would it kill you to wake me up with a hand job?” Izuna hisses through clenched teeth.

“Possibly,” Madara replies, deadpan. “Now I want an answer. What did you do to your feathers?”

Sighing explosively, Izuna flops onto his pillow and aims a sloppy back kick at Madara’s shin. His talons close on air as Madara deftly spreads his thighs then snaps them back together to capture his leg. “I washed them,” he chirrups. “I don’t suppose you recall all of the soot last night? Kinda hard to miss.” 

“‘Zuna, they look like Tousan’s.”

There’s a beat of silence where Izuna goes completely still. Madara can feel the exact moment of realization as his brother looks back over his shoulder and tenses with the slow bleed of the Sharingan circling his eyes. 

“Indra’s balls,” Izuna whispers in horror.

It’s like history is repeating itself.

Oral tales from the eldest of the tengu recall Tajima’s ascension as clan head—a gyrfalcon with thermals in his heart and a hunting prowess unmatched in centuries despite his blinding at the paws of a zenko when he was young. Back then the Uchiha had been a fractured flock characterized by infighting and lawless abandon. His coming of age was seen as a prophetic message from Indra himself, a holy event wherein the moon turned red with the blood of tengu-past and Tajima danced on the earth, witnessed only by the kami. When he returned to the aeries, he brought with him flight feathers whose edges were kissed crimson as if dipped in celestial favor.

From that day on, he took the mantle of clan head and grounded the kit-eaters and more unsavory tengu with ruthless efficiency—tore the wings straight from their backs and forced them to walk the world as outcasts. Not even a year later, still mateless, he miraculously hatched two chicks of his own bloodline. Indra’s gift, the clan claims. And perhaps they were right, because in little more than fifty years’ time after that Tajima had established an empire, flanked by his red-eyed sons.

The tales are inflated and made to be larger than life as all oral traditions are. Madara is well aware that his father is as fallible as any other tengu, if a bit more powerful and higher strung, but Izuna has always been more susceptible to the religious drivel that flows through the clan. Indra this, Indra that. It’s impossible to release your bowels in the daytime without giving thanks to Indra’s blind eye.

Knowing the stories and knowing his brother’s excitability, Madara doesn’t hesitate to smother him with a firm, grounding embrace. “It’s just a change in plumage pattern. Strange, but nothing to get worked up over,” he reassures, planting a nomadic line of kisses along the side of Izuna’s face, then backtracking to nuzzle each one. “Did anything out of the ordinary happen with the kitsune you met? Do you feel different?”

Peeping like a newly hatched chick, Izuna shakes his head. “I danced,” he offers, hesitant in a way he never is.

“You always dance,” Madara scoffs gently. “Haven’t been still since the day you hatched.”

“Yeah, but—” Izuna begins, trailing off. There’s a moment of tension as if he’s winding up to ask something, but then it uncoils and the question that comes out isn’t quite what Madara expects. 

“Do you think I’ll go blind, like Tousan?”

It takes quite a bit of maneuvering and accounting for far too many limbs with Izuna going boneless half-way through, but Madara manages to get them repositioned front to front. Reassurance is had in the warmth of their bodies and the familiarity of shared breath. He immediately pets Izuna’s hair back, tucking it behind his ears, and plants a tender kiss to each eyelid. “You will if you keep masturbating the way you do,” he intones in an attempt to bring back a little levity.

“Madara, I’m serious.”

And he is with that tone. “No, Otouto,” Madara warbles softly, “You’ll be just fine.” Another kiss, this time on the fullness of his lips. “The elders say Tajima was blind long before his wings ever changed.”

“Oh.” Finally, Izuna creeps his hand up along Madara’s lower back and squeezes the other beneath his waist. “Okay.”

They lie wrapped up in each other and exchanging soft bursts of birdsong long enough for the sunlight to shift and cast dapples onto the linens. The warmth of spring is coming, Madara can sense it in the sweat building where they touch. Soon he’ll be picking Izuna’s ridiculous plumage out of the sheets, but he can’t find it in him to mind overly much.

Before Madara has the heart to move in order to prepare for the day, there’s a terse knock on the door, then the screen slides noisily on its casters. Uchiha Tajima sweeps in without waiting for an invitation and clacks his way through the minefield of soot-prints they were too exhausted to clean last night.

Gone is the softness from the night before. This is the tengu who has built a nation—their clan head come to lead them all in the peace accords. His formal kimono and haori are immaculate, red with gold edging to complement the color and carriage of his wings. Even his talons are tipped in lacquer.

“You’re late,” he announces, gazing up into the rafters as if commenting on the shift in the weather. “There’s plenty of time for you two to play your mating games after the ceremony,” he says, not pausing to humor a response. “Get up and let’s fly. You can break your fast in the air.”

Chuffing in annoyance, Madara levels him with a glare that goes unheeded. “Tajima,” he growls, sharpening his teeth on his father’s name, “Izuna’s wings have changed.”

Tajima cocks his head to the side and squints with sightless eyes.

“They look the same to me. Get dressed, my loves.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a shorter chapter this week, but that's just how the POVs had to be split. :)


	5. Hashirama's POV

Kodama chitter from his shoulders as Hashirama bolts through the forest, leaves in his hair and haori flapping out like a tengu’s wings. Today is the day! The day he gets to see the elegant man his sweet baby otouto has become.

Visions flash before him of a body much like his own—tall, broad, and strong as an oak tree with a crown of living vines threaded around his delicate ears. He’ll have white fur, of course, and at least three, no  _ four _ tails just like Hashirama did when he came of age. His Tobirama is going to be a spitting image of him and he  _ can’t wait _ .

And maybe, if Inari is as kind as when Hashirama last spoke to them, they’ll give Tobirama a soul-mate as well—a tail the color of his destined mate’s fur with curls of kitsune fire to match.

Hashirama glances over his shoulder as he bounds over a felled tree and launches himself airborne. Through the gaps in the waving curtain of his hair he can see his own red soul tail flying out, sprinkling the leaves below with spitting sparks and embers so hot they glow white. It’s adorable the way the kodama hurry along after him with their little water pails to douse the embers and collect the elegant feathers reborn in their place.

So cute!

Hashirama can add the smoldering plumage to his already too-long haori.

Grinning and caught up in thinking about the inherent beauty of the world, he lands heavily on his paws and stumbles into a tree. It’s only through sheer luck that he avoids braining himself on the rough bark, and instead manages to scrabble over its roots with all the grace of a lamed kudu. The kodama tumble off of his shoulders, but, being used to his near-constant distractibility, they deftly latch onto his hair without further incident.

“Sorry,” he calls back to his trailing retainers. They vibrate in return, fading out only to reappear running in spurts along the branches above him. Safer that way, he imagines.

Still, a couple of bruises won’t keep him from the joy of seeing his brother again after spending far too long away. Wanderlust pumps through his veins, but his otouto is his heart. Butsuma will join them for the lavish ceremony to come along with his newest kits, Itama and Kawarama, but Hashirama only has eyes for the brother he half-raised on this mountainous cloister for nearly a century.

Rounding a bend brings the massive red torii of the Inari shrine they share rising up out of the forest like sentinels. And they are in a way. Any creature who would dare to enter the corridor and brush the pillars without a selfless prayer in their fingertips would be torn apart by the benevolent magics of this place—magics he himself stamped into the soil.

His reclusive otouto is nothing if not protected. He’s ensured it.

The spaces between the torii grow smaller the closer to the shrine he lopes and soon enough the ancient stone foxes rise up to flank the entry gate. Hashirama slows long enough to bow to them both and stroke the golden tassel hanging from the key in the smaller fox’s mouth, then he’s off again.

The world is a rapidly shifting panoply of green, brown, red, and finally,  _ finally  _ the one color he’s missed dearly in his wanderings.

He veers toward the splash of white up the path, darting through the brilliant patch of sunlight painting the open courtyard in stark relief. Paws slapping the stone faster and faster, he opens his arms wide to slam into his most precious person with all the strength his love can bring. However, before the embrace lands, Tobirama lifts his hand and Hashirama rams head-first into an invisible ward with full momentum. A loud, gong-like toll rings out, the world itself shudders, and Hashirama blinks blearily at the ground without knowing how he got there.

“Anija, you know better,” Tobirama chides before turning away and making his way back towards the inner shrine.

“So mean!” Hashirama whines once he can breathe again. He doesn’t know where his kind, adorable otouto learned to be so callous, but it certainly wasn’t him! He’ll be having a talk with the wildlife later, maybe send some more kodama to bully back any bad influences.

As he slowly regains his paws, the crown of vines spills across his back and down to press into the divots of muscle beneath his clothing. Leaflets bloom and die in quick succession, gifting their spark of life to heal the bruises and what might possibly be a cracked rib or two. Hashirama pats the vines in thanks and follows his brother at a more sedate pace.

It affords him the chance to study Tobirama where he hadn’t before.

Tobirama’s body is tall, yes, but that’s where the similarities end. His otouto’s new form is lithe and built for speed and aerodynamics—long legs and muscular hindquarters with a sharp-featured, vulpine face to match. He’s certainly not Butsuma’s son in looks, but nor is he their mother’s.

Perplexed, Hashirama’s attention catches on the incredibly rich fabric of his haori—blue like the depths of the Naka, inset with stars reflected on its surface—and flows down to where only the tip of one tail swings just below it. 

Oh. Oh,  _ Tobirama _ .

Chest aching, Hashirama quickens his pace to close the distance between them and wraps his brother up in an iron embrace from behind. He buries his face into the pelt he knows so well with its stardust scent and curls all of his tails around Tobirama’s legs and hips.

“Otouto,” he says, voice low and mournful, “I should have been here for you when you danced.”

“Inari would not have tolerated your company,” Tobirama yips harshly. Though, he gentles his words with a soft pat to the back of Hashirama’s hands. “You are not to blame.” 

“You don’t know that. I’m sure they would have made an exception!”

Tobirama scoffs and turns to nip Hashirama’s cheek, more lip than teeth. “An exception for meddlesome brothers? I doubt it. I’m fine, Anija. I will not be the first kitsune to be denied tails at their ascension ceremony.”

“Yeah, but—” Hashirama sputters, only to be cut off.

“Enough. Have you had breakfast? There’s still Inarizushi to be eaten and flying fish due to spawn in the creek to the north. If you send your kodama to retrieve some, we might add red roe.” With that, Tobirama pries Hashirama’s arms away and slips through the space between his hands as soon as it appears. He carefully smooths away any wrinkles from his haori and resettles his pelt to frame his face.

It’s a very, very nice garment. Arguably even nicer than the kimono, hakama, and haori of fire-rat fur Hashirama brought for him to mask his nudity at the ceremony. Non-kitsune have such strange concepts of what constitutes propriety.

“Okay, I’ll ask them. But, Tobi, where did you get your clothes? I mean, it’s good to see you venturing off of your mountain and all. Just unexpected, I guess.” He shrugs, waggling his tails in hopes of an answer he likes.

Instead of responding, Tobirama abruptly turns away to busy himself with squatting down and picking out a leaf from the celestial scrying pool. It sticks to his fingers and crunches in his fist. “It was a gift,” he says curtly, leaving no room for further inquiry.

It’s a little sad to see him in such a bad mood during their reunion. Though, Hashirama supposes he’d be a little melancholy too if Inari denied him the same power given to the remainder of his family in spades. He looks to the impeccably kept scrying pool and the clean-cut granite bowl beneath. Studying the variegations of white and black interlaced, he doesn’t realize at first what he’s seeing isn’t only stone.

In Tobirama’s reflection there’s the familiar shape of his primary tail—white like the moon—and another swishing energetically against it. This one thrums with power so potent it blurs at the edges and stands out black as night. As Hashirama’s eyes widen and his ears prick forward, the reflection of the temple itself warps around what looks to be a mass of obsidian feathers.

He only knows because his own soul tail shares that same unique texture, if a different coloration. 

Tobirama keeps his secrets tucked close, surely, but this goes beyond his hermetical nature. They’re  _ brothers _ . They’re supposed to share in the joy of Inari’s gifts together.

“Otouto, I need you to answer me honestly now—” Hashirama begins, picking his words with care and keeping his voice flat, “—how many tails did Inari gift you last night?”

“And who is to say I’m lying, Anija? I only see the one,” Tobirama quips without bothering to turn and face him. Though, Hashirama catches the wince in his reflection before Tobirama can affect stoicism once again.

“Huh, that’s weird,” Hashirama grunts, moving to cross his arms and tap his chin as if deep in thought. His five tails flick out in a long, sinuous wave, lifting the back of his phoenix-feather haori and setting it to smoldering in the shade of the shrine. “Because I see at least two.”

It’s telling how quickly Tobirama catches the reflection of the movement out of the corner of his eye and violently flinches away from the scrying pool. Even more revealing when he rises in slow motion as if being led to the gallows and spins on his dainty, white paws to clench his fists and glare.

“Anija,” he cautions. 

It’s pretty cute how he can give the impression of raising his hackles even when he doesn’t have them anymore. Though, it’s also a little heartbreaking, too.

There was a time when this man before him was no more than a ball of fluff and affection so small he could be held in two cupped palms. Tobirama had grown so quickly after that, attached at the hip and brimming with more mischief than Hashirama could possibly hope to handle. It was hard and he had to leave periodically to perform his duties and ease the pain of whatever tangleroot his mother’s blood had seeded his soul with, but they managed. He’s Tobirama’s anija and kind of his surrogate parent in a weird way. Their bond is unbreakable and one based in such open honesty that Hashirama’s heart sings with it. Or at least they used to share their secrets. He doesn’t really know what happened to change that, just knows that he wants that openness between them again. 

Maybe if he just tries  _ harder _ . Pushes a little more. 

He takes a step, hand upraised and eyes soft.

However, before he can press, a kodama fades into existence, its featureless feet perched on the very tips of Tobirama’s pelt. Its head revolves until it’s upside down completely and vibrates so hard its face begins to slide. The black voids of its eyes and mouth all slip down to settle in the same approximate position as Tobirama’s celestial markings.

Hashirama slowly lowers his arm and allows the long fall of his hair to slip over his shoulders. He should have noticed that earlier.

“The forest is right; you have Inari’s marks,” he points out, disappointed in his brother’s lack of trust. “Three lines for three tails.”

A healthy number, especially considering how powerful Tobirama’s soul-mate looks to be already. Mito had needed almost fifty years to be reborn into her power fully and even that conduit hadn’t warped the world around his soul-tail’s edges like this prospective partner. 

It’s very much like Tobirama to downplay his gifts. 

Hashirama himself had danced into his body without an ounce of the natural elegance his brother was born to. He stomped his paws halfway into the soft ground instead of keeping his movements light and flung his arms wide with each turn, casting aside the demure expectation in those tight, rigidly scripted pirouettes. It was choreographed flailing if he had to describe it. But his two left paws had earned him Inari’s amusement and a divine meeting there on the windswept knoll. Thumbs hewn of starfire had swept away his tears—once, twice—then Inari departed with a lingering kiss pressed to his forehead. Power swept through him then, hot like a brand and smelling of forge fumes. When it finally settled beneath his skin, four heavy tails swayed in the wind and his hands were cupped around a ceramic jar filled with what he would come to learn were phoenix ashes.

Four celestial tails and a soul-bond to boot. 

Such a blessing hadn’t been bestowed upon the Senju in centuries, long before Butsuma’s fox cry led their skulk at least. The half-mask markings on his face are a steady reminder of the joy he was entrusted with—

—just as Tobirama’s should be.

Instead, he looks…perplexed.

“Three? There is only the one addition,” Tobirama finally admits, though his tone doesn’t exactly sound pleased by it.

“Haven’t you looked at yourself yet?” Hashirama asks, dumbfounded. “You’re lovely, Tobirama! My perfect little snow fox. And you definitely have three markings, but,” he pauses, “where is the other tail? Your reflection only has two.”

They watch each other woodenly, so obviously brothers in the confusion they share, then simultaneously look down.

Another pair of kodama wave about, suspended in the empty air as they cling to a tail that doesn’t fully exist.

“No way,” Hashirama whispers. Tobirama hisses an equally breathy, “Shit.”

Two soul-mates. It’s a first as far as Hashirama’s knowledge goes, the forest’s too for that matter. His mokuton shifts with its constant low level buzz but ultimately remains silent. But, if Tobirama has only met the one mate so far, it makes sense for his second soul-tail not to have become corporeal yet even after the dance.

“Okay, so I think we can agree that this is a little unexpected.”

“A little unexpected,” Tobirama repeats, deadpan.

“Um, yeah,” Hashirama affirms, purposefully ignoring his brother’s sarcasm. “Let me see your other soul-tail and maybe we can, I don’t know, extrapolate?” He tries to go around to get a better look, but Tobirama spins with him.

“Do you even know what that word means?” Tobirama yips.

“Sure, it means ‘listen to your elders and stop giving me lip’.” Which is the exact wrong thing to say.

Hashirama bats at Tobirama’s hands, trying to grab his shoulders and forcibly turn him. Predictably, it turns into a squabble—feathers and fur go flying and they land with a resounding crash as it devolves further into impromptu grappling. In his fox form, Tobirama has always been more of a midrange fighter, happy to use his speed to his advantage, lunging in to deliver a heinous bite and whipping away before retaliation could be had. Now he’s apparently had a taste of what human limbs can do in close quarters. 

Still, Hashirama  _ knows _ him, raised this irascible little kit.

Built along broader lines, he wrestles his otouto beneath him and uses every single bit of his Inari-given strength to pin him. Five tails is barely enough to hold him; Tobirama should have been born a wildcat for as lithe and wriggly as he is.

“Inari gave you a soul-mate for a reason. Let me see it!” Hashirama yaps as he narrowly avoids having his nose taken off by a well-aimed fist.

“If we can—”

A grunt as the feint succeeds in distracting him from a powerful blow to the ribs.

“—figure out what kind of feathers you have—”

An open-handed strike to his hip, sure to bring up a glorious bruise.

“—Mito can ask around!”

Tobirama’s ears flatten against his hair.

Sound as Hashirama’s judgment typically is, he thinks he may have miscalculated how to go about getting what he wanted this time around, as evidenced by the loud, sudden series of glottal clicks that sound like a rattle and translate as a hearty ‘fuck you.’ He’s not good at patience. Or being denied when all he wants to do is help. Is it really so hard just to go back to how they were?

And so he bullies past the flurry of claws and teeth to paw at Tobirama’s bottom until the kitsune magics fold and a long, exquisite tail coated entirely in feathers bursts forth beneath his haori.

“Anija!” Tobirama roars, scandalized.

And that of course is when the entire contingent of the Senju clan arrives precisely on time.

Too red in the face for his celestial marks to be distinguishable, Tobirama shoves Hashirama off of his back and scrambles to reassemble his dignity. Barelegged and wearing only an oversized haori cinched at the waist, he storms out of the shrine and bolts into the forest, yowling and chittering to the kodama littering the canopy.

They’ll be fine. This isn’t the first instance where Hashirama has misstepped and the most memorable was ten times worse than a little rough handling. Ten minutes to collect himself and one of Hashirama’s tearful apologies will have his otouto right back to normal. Hopefully. 

“Should I ask?”

Butsuma’s six rich, brown tails sweep the already immaculate floor as a row of faces flank him, watching the tableau play out in several different shades of amusement. 

“Probably not,” Hashirama says, drawing out the syllables.

His response receives a sharp nod and no further inquiry, but Butsuma’s eyes never stray from the black tip lashing furiously under Tobirama’s garment as he disappears into the trees.


	6. Tobirama / Madara POV split

Tobirama slows to a lope and eventually comes to a standstill, bracing himself against a tree. As quickly as his lungs empty and refill, he can’t seem to take a breath. The white fringe of his hair isn’t enough to hide him from the world, much less cast an illusion on his own truths. His Inari-given mate is a tengu, and not just any civilian feather duster, but Uchiha Izuna, second heir to the empire Uchiha Tajima has carved into the cliffs from the Senju border in the middle of Fire Country all the way north and east into the Land of Lightning. It’s a swath of land more viciously guarded than any other with only the Senju’s Inari shrines to ensure safe passage between east and west. 

And soon those aeries will be Tobirama’s prison.

He hadn’t made the connection last night when the yōkai had stepped in like the hand of mercy to make him right before he foundered Inari’s blessing completely. The sly, yet beneficent creature was so far removed from the tales he had heard of ‘a murderous creature steeped in rivers of bloodshed that his eyes shone with it’.

There was no suspecting—Tobirama had no way of knowing.

But now he does. Now that he’s had time to ruminate on the particular variegations of the feathers rustling along his tail compared to those he collected from the haori. When he squints he can see the same spectacularly colorful patterns between them—purple, and blue, and a whole spectrum he can’t quite describe. The humans’ stories always depicted tengu as hideous, with eyes as black as their wings.

That’s…not true. Too, Izuna had been brazen and teasing, yes, but not particularly cruel as they danced in the red light of the moon. As tender around him as the grass pressing up against his paws. Even so, confident hands and a beatific smile can’t lessen the wound of being bound to a member of the tengu main line.

Bark curls up and presses at his nail beds from below as he sinks down onto his haunches, clawing furrows into the sapwood. Beads of sweat turn his silk haori dark, glues it to his skin. A fool. A complete and utter fool he’s been. For all his self-imposed seclusion, he still hasn’t managed to keep the invasive stranglevine of the world at bay.

He reclaims his stiff fingers and clutches at his ears just to feel the sting—anything to ease the tightness in his chest that makes screaming impossible. Curling around the gaping wound in his soul proves to be just as futile. 

Uchiha Izuna. And now possibly another of their ilk, because why would the fates ever be kind?

And the worst part of it all is that Hashirama knows. He could have hidden his tails—ruled with the unlucky designation of a single tail, but ruled all the same. 

No longer.

The promise Tobirama had made to himself to take his Anija’s mantle of responsibility is for naught. All of those decades spent curled up in a shared den with the comfort of Hashirama’s scent, and his protection, and his  _ presence _ , left unrewarded. Anija gave up so much of his life to raise Tobirama in their father’s place, it was only fair to offer that same investment of time so that Hashirama could finally have a chance to go out and live the life he was born to. To chase his exceedingly patient phoenix mate around the world and seed the continent with gentle forest spirits.

He screws his eyes shut as he pants fruitlessly. There’s no air left to be had on this mountain any longer. No feeling in his fingers. No strength in his legs.

Inari save him, Butsuma can’t even meet his eyes when they are under the same stretch of canopy and perhaps this is why, perhaps his preternaturally powerful father could see that he’s not a blessed omen as the elders claim, but a vile curse. Had their positions been reversed, he’s not sure if he would have done anything different—which is why Hashirama deserves to be given  _ everything _ .

An indeterminate amount of time passes—what could be seconds, could be hours—before he’s finally able to get a handle over his own emotions and tamp down the flood of panic. It’s slow going, baring his teeth as he brutally wrangles his racing pulse beat by deafening beat. This is his body and he will not be ruled by it. 

The sun shifts. 

Finally, the parasthesia in his fingertips fades and his lungs fill as reliably as they should. Without the blinding flush of panic, his situation is still serious, but not quite as dire, he finds. 

When he rallies the strength to look up, there’s a ring of kodama around him appearing more hesitant than he’s ever seen the little spirits. The closest even holds aloft an odd scrap of fabric with small, stylized foxes cavorting around the hem. It’s something the humans use to collect their tears and it’s such a heartwarming overture that Tobirama accepts it without hesitation. He pats his dry face for show, winning him a cacophony of chitters.

“Thank you. Now stop stealing from the shrine visitors,” he chides, voice rough with lingering emotion.

They only shake more.

These spirits are his brother’s hand and one he will never shy from taking no matter the things he says to the contrary. Yes, they argue like kits. That’s just who they are. It’s how they love, and that love runs too deep to stay placid.

They will get through this. It’s a manageable situation, he tells himself repeatedly until it sticks. 

Exhaling long and slow, he finds his hindquarters again and stands tall to scent the air. The Naka is just west and the humidity in the air still speaks to another hour before the ceremony begins and the axe falls. Until then, he intends to drown his fears of the future in the flowing waters of the present.

Still too shaken to cavort, he walks casually instead, one paw after the other. His steps barely make a sound in the dry leaf litter and fairy rings dance around his feet in a burst of blue flame. The odiferous mushrooms pattern his trail, unfurling above the faint patina of ash as he passes.

The further he goes, the more confident he becomes that regardless of Inari’s mistake this mountain will always be his home. They are one and the same. Inseparable.

As the trees whisper his name, he thinks that if he can convince his brother to keep this secret between them, there may be a way.

He doesn’t allow for hope to take root just yet, but it’s a close thing.    
  
  


***

The Naka is wider than Madara remembers it, swollen with overflow as it crests its banks and laps at the scales of his ankles. The gravel squeaking under his lacquered talons feels the same, though, as does the heft of a flat stone in his palm.

Winding back, he sends the rock clattering across the surface of the river with an expert flick of the wrist. As expected, it bounds across quicker than a diving tiercel and clatters along the other bank. As soon as it settles, a lone glowing figure studies the gray lump and picks it up to return it to him.

Who would have thought Hashirama’s kodama were so adept at playing fetch?

He accepts the added weight when the tree spirit situates itself on top of his wing joint and plucks the stone from its featureless hands. 

Coming back to this mountain is a bittersweet event and harkens back such fond memories of a time when the most taxing struggle he had to contend with was convincing Izuna that no, fledglings their age should not have such voluminous down. The row they had lasted for almost a decade. Even now a comment about his fluff is enough to set him to fuming.

His mate is the single most endearing, ridiculous creature to grace the thermals and half the time Madara doesn’t know whether to preen or pluck him. He’s been blessed by the personalities that have shaped his youth and can only look forward to those precious influences that will continue to shape his future. 

Even the kodama, capricious though they are. 

“So, how have you fared? It’s been a while,” he observes, repeating the process. Toss, skip, retrieve. Toss, skip, retrieve. The rhythmic slap and clack is almost meditative, like the sound of purification ladles.

The kodama releases its payload into his palm and taps his cheek, flaring brightly as it vibrates.

“I see,” Madara replies, brow rising. “How exciting. I’m sure Hashirama is laying eggs over it.” He hasn’t seen his old kitsune friend in several decades, but surely some things are embedded in your soul—blinding, gut churning positivity in this case. However, the next series of flashes has him frowning at the light scattered across the river’s surface.

“And what the hell is wrong with that? As if having two mates wouldn’t be an Indra-kissed blessing,” he grunts. Finally, the kodama takes on more mass, no longer blurring at the edges. It climbs over Madara’s crest and hangs its head down to meet him void to eye. After seeming to search for something for a long moment, it rotates its head and shakes.

“Well, that’s idiotic.” It’s apparently not the answer the kodama was looking for.

This time when it disappears to retrieve the stone, it tarries on the opposite bank, kicking it along with its diminutive hands behind its back. Madara whistles to it, clacks his teeth and half raises his wings when that doesn’t work. Ridiculous little things, just as prone to mood swings as their handler. 

“When did the forest get so maudlin? You should be  _ celebrating _ ,” he scoffs, none too gently.

Another chitter, this time longer, sustained, and sharp enough to win a bark of laughter. The stupid trees never used to use expletives when he was a fledgling, which begs the question of where they learned to deliver such a tongue lashing.

“Okay, fine. Yes, it’s terrible. Truly the worst of fates for Hashirama’s brother,” he replies dryly. Fortunately, sarcasm isn’t a nuance the forest has picked up on yet.

The kodama reappears on his shoulder and looks him in the eye. It makes sure that he’s watching as it throws the stone into the middle of the Naka. It sinks with a loud, very final plunk.

Well, maybe sarcasm  _ is _ something they’ve learned in his absence.

Swallowing his amusement, Madara fishes through the travel pack lashed to his thigh and roots around until he comes back with a small porcelain jar held delicately between his claws.

The potency of the Gyokuro is evident even through the waxed cheesecloth lashed around the jar’s mouth.

“I grew these leaves myself under the shade of a three-thousand year old Sage tree,” Madara intones with all the gravity of a de facto head of clan, pausing for maximum effect. It earns him a soft, respectful rattle and so he carries on with a glimmer of mischief. “Perhaps we should take a break from skipping rocks, have a peaceable cup of tea,” he continues, abruptly dropping the formality in favor of an unimpressed drawl, “and you can explain this travesty in terms my ‘bird brain’ can understand.”

The kodama has no true facial features, but Madara can almost sense the way it rolls its eyes. Despite being separate entities, it’s hard to distinguish what is the tree spirit’s natural personality, and what is run-off from Hashirama.

Madara would venture to guess a significant portion is the latter.

Bemused, he cants his wings to spread a canopy above them and seats himself cross-legged in the shade. As he busies himself with retrieving a small, slightly battered tea pot from his travel pack, another pair of kodama fade into existence, echoing his movements. It’s odd to have garnered such interest from them; when he and Hashirama used to play, they would typically sit in the canopy and root for one or the other to win their idiotic challenges. Which Madara often did on account of having opposable thumbs.

Still, they were never this intent on being on or near him back then.

He snorts at the memory, retrieving two cast-iron yunomi from within the belly of his well-loved tea pot and holding it out to one of the pantomiming kodama.

“Here, make yourself useful and fill this,” he commands.

It stills and watches him without reaching out to take it, because of course.

“Please,” he adds, raising a brow.

Jumping on its tiny legs, the spirit glows brighter than the rising sun and rushes off with its prize. The little, brass pot is bigger than its head, but it manages all the same, toddling down the bank and returning triumphant with its back arched and tiny arms straining.

“Thank you,” Madara says with a gracious half bow.

The river continues to burble softly in the background as he goes about the ritualistic steps of warming the cups and steeping the tea. Its soothing melody keeps time for the accompaniment of sweet birdsong and the chirr of insects. Temperate climes, lush forest, and a sense of peace emanating from every facet of this strange mountain—it would be an ideal home in which to roost and raise chicks.

The thought plucks a discordant note against his heartstrings, but it passes quickly enough. Izuna is trying his best for them and that is all he needs to be at peace. What will come will come.

A series of flares and surprised chitters draws his attention back to where his preparations are almost finished, surprised to note the now half-dozen kodama peering at the katon jutsu in his palm far too closely.

“Stay back,” he cautions, turning the pocket of flame blue and settling the tea pot in the center. Sparks tumble through the spaces between his fingers and sizzle against the gravel, much to his companions’ delight. One of them manages to catch a spark before it goes out completely and coaxes it back to health in its bare hands.

He had forgotten that these particular manifestations of the mountain’s sacred tree were fond of flame, what with their connection to the zenko. Celestial rebirth, Hashirama had claimed, demanded it. Even in more terrestrial terms, fire is regenerative for them and sought out in the winter when even trees seek to germinate. If only the forest could fuck…that would solve all of their problems, he thinks.

Laughing explosively, Madara loses control of the katon jutsu, making it flare wildly. His wings flap with such force it sends down a volley of wind and scatters feathers and kodama alike. A series of concerned chitters makes him break into guffaws again, sobering only after more of the damn spirits show up to crowd him.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he replies, still chuckling as he wrangles the flame back down, “I was only distracted by my own ridiculousness.” Too much time spent apart in recent years has him longing for Izuna if only to share the hilarity. While tea is a pleasant distraction, cheeping like chicks and batting at each other’s wings with his brother will always be his preference. 

He can’t help but smile and shake his head.

“Here, the tea is done.” Blowing his bangs out of his face, he sets up the two already warmed cups—careful to press them into the gravel so as not to tip them—and fills them with fragrant, steaming tea. “Drink with me and share your own ridiculous thoughts on why Hashirama’s kin being blessed with two mates is driving the poor thing to madness.”

In an instant, the kodama with the most bulbous head is before him, splay legged and manhandling a cup half as large as its body. Madara watches in fascination as it rolls onto its back and uses its feet to slosh what is possibly the most well-tended gyokuro in existence into its void-like mouth, then roll back up as if waiting for more.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Gossip is your coin. Tell me this tale of woe in full and I’ll refill your cup. I also want to hear what Hashirama has been up to these past eighty years.” A pause. “Yes, yes, fine, I’ll tell you my story as well. Now get on with it if you want to have more before I drink it all.”

Madara narrows his eyes and lifts his own cup for a more measured sip, an obvious threat. He savors the first touch of flavor and revels in the near-boiling heat of it. Finally, the kodama starts to rattle what winds up being a rather engrossing tale of abandonment and found family.

It’s distressing to hear that the Senju have fallen so far that his fox friend was forced to take up brooding far too young. Madara never met Tobirama, the elusive younger brother, but Hashirama had never once spoken of him as anything less than a gift from the divine. There were no tells to suggest that they were anything other than siblings, much less that Hashirama had shouldered the substantial burden of being a surrogate parent.

Suddenly, this fortress of a mountain makes so much more sense.

Wards keyed to kill, a guardian forest whose roots grew to encompass nearly a thousand square kilometers, and an Inari shrine tended at the base to draw in offerings without inviting trespass to the peak above. Despite his playacting, Hashirama was never one to take threats lightly.

Frankly, it’s alarming to think that the zenko wouldn’t be forthright with the fractures in their family. Tajima has always been ferocious to the point of turning feral in defense of familial bonds. The humans learned that lesson swiftly, and they learned it well. Dragon’s Claw, indeed. With a wound festering this long, Madara’s father is going to rake all of the fur from Senju Butsuma’s body if he finds out, armistice or no.

How odd though, that the clan head of the Senju would ostracize his own son for bearing the trappings of the kyuubi no kitsune. Small wonder Hashirama’s brother is concerned about his mates being something other than zenko when he was already rejected for something far less. Black, the kodama said.

Nogitsune would explain such an intense aversion.

This time when Madara takes a sip, the tea is cold.

“Indra’s balls,” he mutters, shaking his head. “So upon completion of the peace accord the third day is supposed to be this poor bastard’s ascension ceremony? To what, Hashirama’s second? Clan heir in training after living alone like a feral squirrel on a fucking mountain? Makes no sense,” he summarizes succinctly.

It’s rather telling that the kodama stay silent. 

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But you know I’m right.”

“No. What you are is inexcusably early,” a strong voice announces, far too loud for how low the sun is.

Madara doesn’t bother turning around, simply reheats the tea pot in his hand and refills the kodama’s cup. “I fly fast,” he replies with a shrug and a flutter of his primaries. Whoever they are can observe some niceties if they want the same in turn.

He swears he can hear teeth grind.

“Then you should have gone directly to the shrine and the welcoming coalition therein.”

Madara hums in contemplation and carefully sets down his tea pot. Gravel crunches as he spreads his wings wide and leans back onto his elbows with the thick sheets of muscle serving as a cushion between. Like this any tengu would be open and primed to be attacked—no strong upper body to lash out with their talons, wings pinned and flightless. He’s no ordinary tengu, though and this little kitsune upstart needs a lesson in courtesy. He drops his head back to take measure of this interloper with sharingan already spinning.

Oh.

_ Oh _ . 

Senju Tobirama—because surely there’s only the one kitsune hewn from solid-white star fire—is resplendent in his ire. Devoid of color but for the marks of Inari and a flush high on cheekbones sharp enough to reveal his vulpine heritage, he stands tall and proud like a living monument. For a moment, Madara can’t help but openly stare. It’s only by the grace of his position that his jaw doesn’t drop.

“I…like it here?” he finally answers once he remembers what a tongue is for.

“It’s my river. You need to leave,” Tobirama replies, nostrils flaring and tails whipping beneath his haori. Not three as the kodama had claimed, but definitely one with a black tip, there and gone in a blink.

And Indra deliver them, Madara knows that blue silk haori intimately. He commissioned it from the artisans of the Tsuchigumo Clan itself—braved the spider Yōkai’s webs just to earn the right. Such an extravagant courting gift and well worth the investment for how rich it felt spread out under the stars when Izuna took him for the first time.

Bold of his brother to choose this particular kitsune to press their suit with. Bold and with good taste. Madara swallows heavily, interested to note the calculating way Tobirama watches his throat bob.

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about the state of Senju water law, but I do know one thing: You look like you could use a drink,” he offers instead of humoring Tobirama’s claim of an entire damn landmark. “You’ll have to fight this one for the right, though.” At that he kicks out to gently nudge the kodama’s foot with a single talon. 

There’s no offended chittering or bobbling head. His companion simply places the empty yunomi back into the depression made for it in the rocks and pats Madara’s foot as it blinks out of existence. A quick scan and Madara realizes that he and Tobirama are alone, the acting clan head of the Uchiha and the second heir of the Senju main line. No spirits, no brothers, no buffer.

On any other day this situation would be a recipe for disaster. But today marks the beginning of a change.


	7. Madara's POV

Tobirama crosses his arms and allows blue flame to lick at his paws. The steps he takes are deliberate and barely shift the river stones. “You’re offering me a drink of my own water? I would say I’m impressed by your gall, but I’ve found that tengu are nothing if not brazen,” he says with a disdainful toss of his head.

Madara watches the kitsune’s tall ears flick back and forth and wonders at what it means. His own instincts cry out that it’s an invitation to be caught and subdued like any other furry prey, but he can’t say. Instead, he blinks to slow the flow of chakra to his sharingan and eases himself back up into tailor sitting. He reclaims his tea cup and takes a sip to ease the mounting tensions. 

“What’s a little water shared between allies?” he asks pointedly, looking up through the gaps in his hair. They may have different body language, but the jibe obviously hits home.

Tobirama spears him through with a glare so piercing even tengu would have trouble matching it. The only other time he’s seen something so inherently dangerous is when Izuna battles Kagami for nest rights.

“We’re not allies yet, tengu,” Tobirama snaps.

Madara takes another long, slow pull of his Gyokuro. “Aren’t we, though? The papers may not be signed, but here I am partaking of your river and there you are, wearing the haori I gave my otouto as an intention to court,” he points out. It’s satisfying to watch the realization roll over Tobirama’s admittedly handsome features—sharp, intelligent, and built along more delicate lines in the way of Tajima and Izuna as opposed to himself.

Tobirama abruptly stops pacing, inhaling as he drops his head back to look up at the sky. His arms slowly fall lax at his sides in a slide of blue silk. “You’re Uchiha Madara,” he says without inflection.

“And you’re Senju Tobirama. Now that we’ve gotten the dick weighing out of the way, I’ll offer again. Tea?”

In that moment more than any other, Madara wishes Tobirama had wings if only to read him properly. Izuna is by far better at these things. There’s a complicated roll of chakric fox fire that snakes up Tobirama’s furry canons before petering out completely, followed by an equally inane series of flickers along his tails. Three, Madara notes, a little perplexed as to how he missed that the first time considering his visual prowess.

Two black tails bracketing another as white and crisp as snowfall.

Black,  _ feathered _ tails.

Only decades of maintaining a diplomatic facade as acting clan head keeps him from choking on his own spit.

“I—” Tobirama begins hesitantly, only to sigh at his own reticence. “Yes. Tea sounds like a pleasant distraction.”

Madara can only nod dumbly. It takes several seconds to collect himself and in that time, Tobirama takes a seat where the kodama had been, primly curling his fox-like legs in and to the side. The gentle S-curve of his body does absolutely nothing to ameliorate Madara’s racing thoughts.

He knows laughably little about soulmates. When he was still a chick, he recalls members of his flock remarking on the lack of mating marks on his and Izuna’s wings. Black was altogether unheard of, they said, as if everyone didn’t have black wings—Tajima the sole exception to that rule. Not that Madara had any idea what mating even was, only that adults did it and were paired for life afterwards. At the time he had thought it was a craft activity for all they would talk about matching colors on their flight feathers.

Only after coming into adulthood himself did he discover that he and Izuna didn’t see the way typical tengu did. They didn’t have this strange, preternatural ability to see ultraviolet wing patterns. Perhaps if they did, he would be able to discern which two tengu would be proud to proclaim this kitsune as their own. A powerful mainline Senju with fire in his temperament and a shape shifter’s skill to sire as well as incubate a clutch.

He smothers the sudden pang of longing in his chest with practiced ease.

“The kodama tell me congratulations are in order. You move well considering you only gained your form last night,” he offers as he settles the brass pot in his hands once more and turns it red hot. “Here.”

Tobirama watches the black flames swirl in his hand intently and holds his yunomi up two-handed to accept the pour. “I learn quickly,” he replies with the same dry intonation Madara used when he said he ‘flew fast.’

It surprises a deep, baritone laugh from him that sets his wings to fluttering. If Tobirama doesn’t want to regale Madara with the tale of how Izuna helped him along in that respect, he won’t pry. His otouto is a force to be reckoned with when he has his mind set on something and Izuna had looked like he was dragged tail feathers first through a pile of phoenix leavings when he made it back to the nest. An apology is likely in order, but he’ll leave it for now.

Shifting his hips on the gravel, Tobirama looks into his tea cup for a long moment. “The kodama speak to you,” he says, effectively changing the subject.

“They do.”

“You understand them.”

“I do.”

And with that, Tobirama’s eyes—red like the sharingan—pin him down. “How?”

Diverting attention from his own indiscretions to highlight Madara’s obvious misstep is an exceedingly clever ploy. It only engenders Madara to like him that much more.

He motions for Tobirama to refill his cup and takes a long, deep inhale of the fragrance, savory with slight undertones of bitterness from overstepping too long. The flavor only speaks to the extent of his distraction.

“I had a dear friend once who taught me how. It’s not hard if you know what to listen for. Though, I have to say, they didn’t used to curse anywhere near as much as they do now.”

The easy admission draws Tobirama up short. His ears swivel forward and the red markings on his face seem to gain a certain dimension to them. “You?” Gravel shifts under his flexing claws. “You were Hashirama’s mysterious playmate when I was a kit? My Anija is an  _ idiot _ ,” he declares.

Well, yes. For all of his cleverness and strength, it’s impossible for Hashirama to be anything other than a stupid, tree-brained fool. No evidence to the contrary will change that opinion.

“We both are, unfortunately. At least I had the excuse of still being a chick at the time. Your brother is just plain brainless,” he mutters into his cup, absently wondering what Hashirama looks like now that he’s long since reached kitsune maturity. Probably the height of a bush with sap in his blood and leaves between his ears.

Tobirama laughs. Small, low, and reserved, but a laugh all the same. Something about it makes Madara look to him and fluff his feathers in satisfaction at a job well done. The white of Tobirama’s skin, illuminated by the morning sun and glowing against the backdrop of reds, and golds, and…he needs to stop. Waxing poetic is Izuna’s purview, not his.

Madara clears his throat, but Tobirama speaks up first.

“You aren’t what I thought you would be.”

Likewise.

“And what exactly were you picturing?” Madara doesn’t ask expecting a real response, but then he also couldn’t have possibly banked on a kitsune this unabashedly blunt.

“You have been described to me as hideous with a long, bulbous nose like a phallus and wings the color of burnt rabbit shit,” he states primly.

And oh, that’s mischief if Madara has ever seen it.

“Too, the humans say tengu are ruthless, boorish monsters whose only hunger lies in violence and desecrating the bodies afterwards. I can see that you are far more handsome than the tales would warrant, your wings are rich and black with red tips and,” he says, pausing to squint, “a shifting overlay of blues and purples. So far you’ve been fairly amiable, if a bit smug. And I am not in fear for my life, though I can’t speak to your proclivities in fucking my corpse were the opportunity to arise.”

Tobirama concludes his assessment by taking his first sip of tea and inclining his head. “The tea is quite good.”

The cool confidence is too much, Madara loses his composure completely. Tiny cheeps escape him as his chest hitches, building into a series of guffaws so powerful he has to curl over to ease the ache in his stomach. He hasn’t laughed like this in years. And here this little shit is sitting prim and proper as if he didn’t just accuse the second most powerful Uchiha delegate of necrophilia. Unbelievable. Almost as unbelievable as what could possibly be, dare he think it, a bit of flirtation. ‘Far more handsome,’ ‘your wings are rich and black with red—’ His laughter cuts off abruptly.

Heart lurching, Madara whips one wing forward so quickly his pinions slap the ground not a handspan from Tobirama’s knees.

Red. Red, red, red,  _ red _ . They’re a mirror image of Izuna’s. When it happened, he has no idea, but the evidence is undeniable. Whatever incited a change in his brother’s plumage has obviously been expressed in him as well, and with the same patterning too. Tajima’s massive flight feathers all boast deep crimson V’s, giving the effect of overlapping scales, but this is different. The distal shaft of each feather throbs with a lighter coloration—red like blood, red like their eyes—flowing down from the top to bifurcate into the two lateral toes of a bird’s foot.

His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open, he can feel it.

“Is everything okay?” Tobirama asks, setting his cup down slowly as his brow begins to furrow.

No? Yes? Madara has no idea. Unfortunately, the mystery quickly turns out to be the least pressing of his concerns right now. From behind he can hear loud, plodding footsteps coming in fast. This is too much, too quickly. A tense meeting turned congenial, a discovery whose lasting ramifications he has no idea how to process, and now an attack? He flaps his wings so powerfully it jettisons him to his feet and looses a volley of hurricane force winds to roll over the surface of the Naka and set it to frothing. 

Tobirama yips in surprise, instinctively tucking his tails and flattening against the ground. The brass pot goes rolling and clatters down the bank to disappear under the waves with a doleful plunk.

“Madaraaaaaaa!” he hears, screamed from a distance a handful of breaths before a mountainous kitsune resplendent in earth tones and far too much exuberance explodes through the brush.

Battle has always come naturally to Madara—the heady flood of adrenaline, the frenetic push and pull of fire in his veins. He knows this game and he plays it far too well, enjoys it more than he should. 

Just as he flexes his talons and digs in deep, muscular thighs coiling in preparation of a lunge, a vice-like grip descends on his most proximal wing joints. A grunt of effort and a powerful pull, then the world spins. The riverbank comes up fast and a truly explosive impact slams the breath from him. Gravel clatters and river spray laces the air as his wings slap up violent eddies of wind. However, before Madara can build sufficient chakra behind his eyes to release a wickedly savage genjutsu, his line of sight is occluded by a flash of white and blue.

The shock pulls him up short.

He stares wide-eyed at Tobirama’s obi as the kitsune hovers over him, one hand supporting his weight against Madara’s chest, the other upraised in warning at the approaching sound of footfalls. 

“Stop!” he roars, neck flexing and fox-fangs bared as Madara lies poleaxed beneath him. “Are you  _ trying _ to start an incident, Anija?”

Anija?  _ Hashirama _ . The monster crashing full tilt towards him with claws upraised and fire in his eyes wasn’t a threat—it was Senju-fucking-Hashirama, the overly amorous fool who used to delight in giving Madara heart attacks by pouncing on him from the underbrush. 

Madara resolves to start an incident himself by knocking some sense into that hard fox skull as soon as he’s back on his feet. 

However, before he can consider his payback further, a resounding war cry—sharp and full-bodied—rings down cacophonously from above. The familiarity claps through him hot like a thunderbolt. Amazing how ten seconds ago he was enjoying tea when now the only refreshment to be had is whatever blood Izuna is about to spill on his behalf. Indra guide him in circumventing a war, because for all his brother’s playacting, he’s the most vicious among them.

Claws tense in the thick, golden fabric of his haori and this time it’s Madara who pulls Tobirama down, sitting up and using his substantial strength to flip the kitsune bodily over his shoulder. Tobirama sprawls half in his lap, blinking up, teeth still bared as Madara snaps his wings up over them protectively.

Not a second later, he feels the rake of talons skim his dorsal feathers and a flash of black wings dives past on a direct path to intercept Hashirama’s charge.

“No!” Tobirama yaps in horror as his ears swivel towards the meaty smack of flesh on flesh.

Everything is spiraling out of control so quickly that the only thing Madara can think to do is rely on instinct at this point, and instinct tells him to control his unruly chicks. Tobirama struggles against him, panting as he frantically tries to break through the cage of flight feathers, which is not something Madara is willing to entertain. Enough is enough.

He gets a palm around the nape of Tobirama’s neck, squeezing a bit too forcibly to accommodate for the slickness of sweat building under his collar. A lurid, purple bruise will be the least of their concerns if Izuna is allowed any more time to move in low and slice Hashirama open from pelvis to sternum the way he favors.

“Stay still,” Madara commands, brokering no argument as he rocks to his feet and forcibly pulls Tobirama up along with him. He sweeps his wings out, revealing the tableau before them with the suddenness of a stage curtain.

Not three meters away he sees Izuna tearing up furrows in sparse patches of grass as he shrieks his fury up at one of the biggest zenko Madara has ever seen. Fingers locked, they snarl and snap, fighting for ground—a battle it looks like Izuna, for all his prowess, is going to lose. Hashirama’s shifted body boasts the broad shoulders and thick waist that defines their particular clan with the added benefit of being graced with pure, unadulterated muscle. His height advantage is substantial as well and can only be attributable to whatever nature spirit Butsuma happened to cavort with to make Inari’s most lethal weapon.

Forget knocking sense into him. When all of this is over, Madara is going to use his brother like a step ladder and bash Hashirama’s beautiful, empty head in completely.

Without hesitation, he angles his body forward to attack and lunges in low, wings fanning out horizontal to the ground. Too fast for Hashirama and Izuna to react, Madara uses the grip he has on Tobirama’s nape to propel him under Hashirama’s straining arms and right at his chest. The maneuver is enough to shock both combatants into stilling their violent lashing of tails and wings, a weakness Madara immediately takes advantage of. He whips his hand out to wrap around the base of Izuna’s tail and drops back with all of his body weight—no attempt to mediate the damage, no qualms with taking a sharp elbow to the gut.

Indra’s balls, his otouto needs to extinguish that reflex.

Grunting, he takes the impact and wraps his thick biceps around Izuna’s arms and chest to restrain him with all of his own considerable strength. Just to be sure, he whips his legs up around Izuna’s hips and buries his back talons under his thighs, effectively pinning him.

This is the most exposed position their kind can be in, wings made useless, limbs bound, and belly exposed. It’s not his first choice, but he knows his mate—Izuna will not stop fighting for his family until every single avenue is exhausted. Even now, he pants so hard his back bows with each inhale. 

“Easy,” he croons in Izuna’s ear, nuzzling against his racing pulse. “Easy, koibito. I’m safe. Nothing happened. We’re all fine.” Short phrases and a soft tone to help the message sink in. 

The high-pitched keen he gets in return is heartbreaking, but Izuna seems to return to himself soon after.

“He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine,” he repeats like a mantra until his hands stop shaking against Madara’s forearms.

“Yes, otouto, we’re all fine,” Madara repeats. And they’re not, but they will be as soon as he’s able to throttle Hashirama so hard kodama fall out. “Do you think you’re ready for me to let you go?”

There’s a moment of stillness, indecision, then Izuna nods with a low, doleful hoot.

They sit up together and Madara unwinds their legs, but only relaxes his arms just enough for Izuna to turn in them and ram his nose up under Madara’s chin. Ridiculous tengu—a ruthless warrior one minute, a chick the next. Madara sings a short burst of melody and takes heart in the immediate echo, idly stroking Izuna’s tail feathers back into order. He’ll preen them properly later, but at least with the rectrices aligned it won’t be immediately apparent that there was almost a murder right before the ceremony meant to usher in a new era of peace.

When he can safely split his focus and check back on his surroundings, Hashirama and Tobirama are staring down at them with matching expressions of surprise—easy to see how close their relationship is in the way they mirror each other’s inexplicable, kitsune body language. Hashirama’s ridiculous futon of tails twitches and Tobirama’s do the same. The only difference between them is that the color riding high on Tobirama’s cheeks is actually visible.

“What?” Madara scoffs. “Did you  _ want _ to have your belly split?” He pointedly cards his fingers through the thick fall of Izuna’s tail feathers to emphasize just how much placating and social grooming it’s taking to get past that point.

There’s a set process to get his mate’s blood to cool.

Tobirama finally tears his eyes away and the spell breaks with the sound of the loud, resounding slap he lands on the back of his brother’s head.


	8. Madara's POV / Izuna's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Just keep in mind that every single one of these lovable idiots is an unreliable narrator, Izuna worst of all. lol

“Tobi! What was that for?” Hashirama whines loudly, ducking under the follow-up backhand just in time.

“For your complete lack of forethought and overwhelming idiocy!” Tobirama hisses as if that fact should already be apparent. He flattens his ears and viciously cards his fingers through his hair, rucking up his haori in the process. “What possessed you to think mock charging the heir of the tengu clan would ever, in any circumstance, turn out well?”

“You don’t understand,” Hashirama whines as his shoulders fall. The crisp green kosode beneath his haori gapes wide, revealing the pale face of a kodama as it curiously peeks out from the pocket of shadow.

“I  _ understand _ your incessant buffoonery almost spilled blood hours before a peace accord centuries in the making! I  _ understand _ that without Uchiha Madara’s intervention I might have lost a brother today,” Tobirama continues to rail.

“Otouto, I—”

Hashirama takes a stumbling step back as Tobirama glides into his space and cuts him off, the tremble of receding adrenaline obvious in his deep baritone. “You  _ what _ , Anija?”

Madara watches Hashirama blanch, all of that bronzed skin losing saturation faster than an autumn leaf when winter bites. It’s impressive to see such a large, powerful kitsune cowed with little more than a well-deserved tongue lashing.

Amazing to see how some things never change. 

“I told you the kitsune I found was perfect. He’s the white one, obviously,” Izuna murmurs, still pressed up tight against Madara’s chest and nudging the underside of his chin with a cold nose. He must have pushed hard to catch up after having stayed behind to take his turn guiding their father in the air. 

Not that it was necessary, but Tajima’s mischief is a powerful thing. 

“Look at how vicious he is, Nii-san. If I were on the other end of that I would have embarrassed myself in my hakama by now.”

A crude sentiment, but shared. Tobirama is glorious in the way he hurls words like barbs and angles his body in the perfect facsimile of a tengu threat display—feet planted and lower back arched to open his chest and bare the lean definition of flight muscles. The only thing that’s missing is the massive sweep of wings curved up and behind to show the full breadth of his ire. However, it wouldn’t do Madara any favors to agree with Izuna outright. The admission would only encourage his brother’s already insufferable ego. 

Trilling softly, Madara yanks out one of the smaller, more downy tail feathers beneath his fingers and shoots Izuna an unimpressed glower. “And is that why Senju Tobirama is wearing one of your mating gifts? So perfect you’re moving on?”

“Madara!” Izuna shrieks, puffing up in affront and chucking Madara’s chin with his forehead as he abruptly sits up. Red lips work the air wordlessly, choking on the thousand denials fighting to get out past each other all at once.

Madara knows his mate well, has memorized every single facet of the heart they share. Izuna’s undying devotion has never been in question, but it’s always heartwarming to see the truth of it in the storm front gathering on his brow. Too, being distracted has always helped curb any lingering murderous impulses after battle.

“Easy, Otouto,” he croons, tapping Izuna’s nose with his own feather. “I’m only teasing.”

Izuna snaps his teeth at the trailing quill and digs his talons in hard enough for Madara to feel the burn of them even through his clothing. “It’s not a funny joke,” he chides, shooting up to his feet and only reluctantly offering down a hand. The way his feathers rise—even the small lines of contour feathers bracketing his temples and sweeping into his hair—reminds Madara so much of a time long ago when even the slightest insult would have Izuna puffing out wider than he was tall.

Indra preserve him, he loves this tengu.

“Okay, yes. You’re right,” Madara grants.

Fighting a smile, he takes Izuna’s hand without hesitation and allows his brother’s strength to pull him upright, wings flaring in counterbalance. A tender kiss eases the sour expression twisting Izuna’s face and puckering his lips. Such a predictable chick. Chest warmed by fondness, Madara embraces him with both arms and wings to release the tie from his flying braid and card the gentle waves out of his ponytail. The preening steals away the remainder of the tension in Izuna’s shoulders and casts it to the ground along with a few broken strands of hair. 

“My apologies,” Madara murmurs, making certain to flutter his wings just enough to draw attention to the bloody bird-foot patterns tracing the breadth of his remiges. It takes a moment, but then the bolt of recognition lands, star-bright and so searing hot it sucks his mate’s breath straight from his lungs.

His  _ soul-mate _ .

Eyes wide, Izuna reaches out and strokes the nearest secondary with what Madara can only describe as reverence. A pointed chirp breaks the moment and finally Izuna warbles acceptance of the apology, knocking their noses together in slow motion.

“Make it up to me later,” he finally chokes out, voice thick as he rests his forehead against Madara’s.

Opportunistic little shit, Madara thinks wryly, pulling away to smooth the wrinkles first from Izuna’s clothing—rich purple embroidered with gold, an exact inverse to the ceremonial costume he himself wears—then his own. Even the epiphany of being connected on the most spiritual of levels isn’t enough to keep his brother from propositioning him in front of an audience.

Not that the Senju are paying them any mind.

The rise and fall of Tobirama and Hashirama’s one-sided argument continues to play out next to them, growing louder and more raucous now that his focus isn’t monopolized. For all that Hashirama assumed the role of surrogate parent, it’s obvious they’re still brothers.

“But he’s my friend! We always play like that!” he insists. His face is wet with tears because even seventy years older and wearing a more mature form, Hashirama is an exaggerated well-spring of emotion. Unfortunately for him, it seems Tobirama is nothing if not immune to the wobble of his lower lip.

“He’s a dignitary and a warrior with battle-hardened skills! You’re lucky he had the wherewithal not to spear us both through!” Tobirama snarls, the back of his neck gone mottled red from a combination of fury and Madara’s rough handling.

Madara blinks slowly and takes a deep, bracing breath. “He’s also right here,” he says dryly.

“Me too,” Izuna cheeps, sidling up close and wearing the clever smile that means so many awful things to come, “also battle hardened!”

And there it is.

Leave it to Izuna to bounce right through the emotional ramifications of near death in defense of family immediately followed by the revelation of their mating being Indra-blessed, only to discard both in favor of hopping talons-first into shooting innuendos at the two heirs of the Senju clan. Sometimes Madara wonders if he lacks the attention span to stick to only one feeling at a time, or if it’s all a carefully crafted ruse.

A century growing up together and he still hasn’t figured it out.

Regardless, their sudden interjection draws the Senju brothers up short. Tobirama snaps his red eyes over to lance them through with a shrike’s gaze as Hashirama continues to spew equal parts tears and kodama. The little white spirits line the boughs above them and glow in inexplicable patterns. A particularly exuberant pair continues to act out the argument, chittering all the while and eventually managing to fall out of the tree and bounce once before fading away. 

“No harm done or intended, Senju Tobirama. You can stop chastising your brother now. After all, he can’t help that he was born with only two brain cells to rub together,” Madara announces, waving him off. It’s not true. Hashirama is wickedly intelligent under all of the play-acting and pomp, but far be it for Madara to admit that aloud.

The reaction is immediate.

“Hey!” Hashirama wails, standing tall in offense. Amazing how quickly his eyes can dry and the strength can settle back into his spine. “I  _ missed _ you,” he slings like a weapon.

“Well you have a piss poor way of showing it,” Madara growls back, pointedly raising the arm Izuna isn’t occupying. Without having to say anything more, Hashirama’s face splits in a smile so wide the world warps and in less than a heartbeat he’s there, whipping up a whirlwind of leaves. A whoop and the dull smack of bodies colliding sets Madara’s wings churning the air of their own accord. It’s only by the grace of his own substantial heft and low center of gravity that Hashirama doesn’t bowl them over completely. 

Izuna deigns to relinquish his place by Madara’s side with only a little grumbling. Later. They’ll celebrate their soul-bond later.

“Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why is your hair so big? You have to tell me  _ everything _ ,” Hashirama exclaims, wrapping those tree-trunk arms around Madara’s waist and lifting. The kodama cheer from the canopy and a gust of wind brings with it the smell of roasting venison from the shrine proper some leagues away—a reminder of the duties awaiting. 

Madara puts on a show of complaining as is expected, but inside he can’t recall a time when he’s ever been more content. The promise of peace, his old friend returned, Izuna solidified as his soul-mate, and the possibility of closeness to be had in Senju Tobirama, whatever that connection grows to be. If not for the very real sting where Tobirama’s claws pricked him, Madara would write it all off as a fever dream. 

It’s more than he deserves, but he’ll take it all. 

***

It’s fascinating how clever these foxes think they are. Take Senju Tobirama, for example. Chin held high, stride smooth and assured, the very picture of predatory elegance and the poise that comes naturally to right  _ bastards _ . He uses his body like the stage of a performance—calling attention to the things he wants to while casting the remainder in darkness—but Izuna was gifted with the apparently rare gift of astute observation. He can see right through the facade and dig out the truth of the thing without exerting himself, without trying at all, really. 

Tobirama is nervous. 

Not in the general sense of prey animals, but in a very specific ‘I’m interested but don’t want to appear interested, so I’ll step carefully in my brother’s rainshadow all the while hanging on every word Uchiha Madara says.’ It’s cute. And promising considering the fact that they’re soul-mates. 

All of them. Except the half-tree, of course—Indra only knows what the hell firebird is stuck being squished under all of that. Not that being pinned down would be awful. Hashirama is objectively good looking with an amiable face and flight muscles for days, but there are two much better options to be had.

Skipping over a felled log with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, Izuna spreads his wings and lands silently as he watches Tobirama trot forward a step to outpace his shadow. 

Tails rise and fall with the motion. 

Three tails, all swishing for the world to see—one as white as the crest of the ocean half a world away, and two resplendent in the trappings of the tengu lovers he has matching him stride for stride on this well-used game trail. Not that Tobirama realizes he rucked up his haori when he was yelling earlier, but Izuna takes heart in just how pretty his own feathers look swinging gently beneath the curve of an ass that can only be considered a gift from the divine. Draped in the haori Madara gave him on their first courting night, flexing with obvious muscle beneath, and—

Izuna bites his knuckles to keep from laughing and having his position at the rear of their motley little party of four forcibly revoked. It’s not his fault he was born with eyes. Not his fault Tobirama is too distracted by Madara’s gruff, masculine appeal to bother putting his hemline to rights or hiking up his collar so the red soul-print doesn’t show where Madara grabbed him during the scuffle.

Last night had been an excruciatingly dark moment coming to terms with the fact that the bond Indra chose for Izuna was going to have to be broken. His Nii-san will always be his first mate and first priority, soul-bonds be damned. But now, now they can have it  _ all _ . 

Izuna moistens his lips and grins where no one can see it. 

He’ll have to approach this courtship carefully what with Tobirama being so damn skittish and Madara being perfect, yes, but also perfectly content to take things at face value. Hashirama might be an issue what with the shrewdness underlying his buffoonery and that frankly terrifying strength. Regardless, it’s all manageable. By the end of this ceremony, Izuna will finally kick that little shit, Kagami, and his little shit friends out for good and replace them with the single most perfect incubator he’s ever seen. Indra gift him thermals because he’s already so in love with the thought of seeing that white belly rounded with Madara’s eggs that he’s trembling with it. 

Maybe Kagami can be invited back after that. Or perhaps for visits in between. Another addition to the aerie and Izuna would be able to keep an eye on them all without giving up any time. Things to think on over the next three days. 

“Izuna!”

Startled from his reverie, Izuna plows right into Tobirama’s back and catches himself on narrow hips, because, of all of his multitudinous competencies, situational awareness isn’t his strongest suit.

War strategy, however,  _ is _ .

He takes advantage of the misstep to tug Tobirama’s hemline down at least far enough to preserve his modesty and bring attention to the fact that his tails have been merrily seducing the rear of this impromptu cavalcade for the past twenty minutes.

It’s not his intent to shame so much as color their future interactions with the slightest burn of embarrassment. A touch of unease. Tobirama is a strong kitsune, self-confident and assured. Which is great— _ fantastic _ —and brings with it the promise of enthusiastic ‘put you in your place’ sex. But the soul bond needs to be forged with a foundation constructed of equal parts strength and vulnerability. Bold, standoffish Senju Tobirama requires a firm yet subtle hand to soften him enough to trust, to show him that he can have these missteps and Izuna will be there to cover for him. 

The sharp snap of fabric makes Tobirama stumble back on his delicate fox paws. Warmth spreads across Izuna’s chest in all of the places they touch, bringing with it the tantalizing scent of celestial favor, even through the layers of silk. Star dust and ozone, family and home. Amazing how soft Tobirama’s fur is beneath his knuckles—like feather down.

“You had a little something showing. I figured you’d want that covered before anyone else sees,” Izuna explains, voice pitched low so it doesn’t carry. Before he can be tempted to look up and be swept away by the heady combination of red eyes and angular cheekbones, he takes a couple of bouncing steps forward and slips past his startled kitsune mate-to-be.

It’s a narrow path and he has to turn sideways to keep from losing feathers to the tree bark to either side. Wings upraised and knocking buds from some of the lower hanging branches, he makes far too much commotion for only one tengu.

Tobirama bats at the falling leaves, ears swiveling towards each one as it passes. With so much extraneous movement, the brief sting of a couple of missing tail feathers goes completely unnoticed. 

It’s an almost disappointingly easy subterfuge, but Izuna has learned to take heart in even small successes. He subtly pockets the glossy coverts and throws his arms up, fanning his tail feathers and flaring his wings as far as the trees will allow to provide cover behind him. 

For all of his chick’s games, Izuna has never once failed to be Madara’s front line, in war, in love, in this. Let Tobirama see how good he is at providing for his mates. Let him see the softness underlying the sharp edges they wear. 

“What? I was thinking deep thoughts,” Izuna finally squawks at whomever called his name as if being this ungainly is an excusable and everyday occurrence.

Madara’s eyes narrow where he stands on the path ahead, hip cocked and arms akimbo. Fortunately, he keeps his contentious opinion to himself and instead jerks his head towards Hashirama at the front of their little retinue. Kodama leap and cavort on the Senju’s shoulders, making a joyous game of running along his collar bone, leaping off to land on Madara’s hair, then climbing all the way up his wing to the wrist only to slide down and do it all over again.

Not surprisingly, his Nii-san allows the child-like spirits to do as they please, even if it rucks up his hair and his lesser coverts in the process. Izuna will absolutely be preening that unsightly mess as soon as they reach the shrine. 

Nasty little things. He never did understand the appeal.

“Izuna!” Hashirama repeats, louder this time as if the exuberant giant didn’t already command the attention of anyone within a league. “Madara was just telling me all about your courtship. Congratulations! It’s been so long I didn’t recognize you without all of the fluff!”

Huh.

War gongs resound in Izuna’s head and he’s not sure how to channel the sudden flood of murderous rage when, one, they’re supposed to be playing nice for the peace accord and, two, this is essentially his brother in-law now and thus off limits for any impromptu assassination attempts. Unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion, he continues towards that glittering grin with silent, measured steps. No clicking talons, no obvious crunch of leaves. Let this pretty bastard know how close he came to death.

Hopefully Tobirama has had enough time to collect himself because Izuna needs his wings now for a threat display. 

“Otouto,” Madara warns, only to get a cheep and a playful tug on his bangs in passing.

This is fine. Izuna was supposed to be showing Tobirama the softness, but he can show off the steel, too. He can control his less savory impulses. 

“Well, it apparently hasn’t been long enough for you to grow out of being an ignorant, feckless asshole,” he announces, holding his arms wide and plastering on his own winning smile—white and dazzling as the snow-capped mountains.

Nailed it.

Next to him he can hear Madara groan long-sufferingly, but then Hashirama is crashing into him—not unlike the sensation of flying headlong into a cliff—and the world spins. Izuna holds onto Hashirama’s broad back and lets the stupid fox twirl him about, submitting to the inevitable.

This is Madara’s friend more than his own. Izuna has never been able to grow close to people the way his brother does, but it’s been some time since they used to double up on Hashirama’s back and ride through the forests. There might be a certain fondness. Only a little, though. Barely enough to fill a thimble.

Perhaps a heinous slight can go unpunished just this once. 

“First off, I have never been anything less than the epitome of sleek elegance and if you imply otherwise, I will  _ gleefully _ destroy you this time,” he says, reflecting all of that glowing positivity right back. “Secondly, I’m sorry for almost killing you earlier.” It’s a pretty powerful peace offering in his opinion—admitting to his part in the scuffle, offering condolences for the fright Hashirama must have had. 

“Oh, don’t worry about that! I thought we were playing,” Hashirama states, shrugging with far too much good cheer for a man who was a swift kick away from spilling his intestines. 

Okay then.

“You turned out to be kind of a scary bastard underneath that smile, didn’t you?” Izuna blurts out on impulse. Terrifying, really. But that’s okay, because so did he.

All he gets in response is another abrupt burst of merriment, thicker and more cloying this time, and a squeeze that makes his ribs creak. “Okay, okay, enough. You’ve had your fun, monster.” Unfortunately, the hint to put him down doesn’t stick, not even when he jabs his hind talons into the kitsune’s kidneys and viciously flicks his furry ears. 

“I’m just so happy to have all of my precious people here with me. It’s been so loooooong,” Hashirama proclaims, dragging out the word.

A sentiment Izuna can empathize with even if he doesn’t quite understand. All of  _ his _ precious people get gathered up and dumped into his nest whether they want to or not, without the option of leaving for any sustained stretch of time. Not even Tajima is immune to Madara’s hoarding tendencies, as it should be.

He glances back over Hashirama’s shoulder to where Madara has taken up a conversation with Tobirama and feels the bloom of hope unfurl in his chest. 

Soon there might be one more to smother in blankets, pillows, and overbearing affection. 

As he’s distracted by thoughts of nest, love, and home, Izuna doesn’t realize the arms around him have shifted until he’s being spun and tossed up into the air. A whirl of green and brown goes by with his sharingan only catching snatches of texture. His wings extend reflexively, coverts rising in surprise. Then the backs of his thighs slam down on impossibly strong shoulders and he buries his fingers into the only handhold available to him, fisting two handfulls of Hashirama’s hair on instinct. 

He’s not exactly proud of the garbled squawk he lets out, but tengu aren’t used to being tossed about, thank you very much.

To add insult to injury, a kodama pats his knuckles and looks up at him, trying its best to mimic his expression as it spreads its void-like eyes as wide as it can and plays with mouth shapes. A tall oval, a puckered ellipse. It finally settles for a constantly shifting amalgamation of the two. 

That’s it, there’s only so much one tengu can take. 

Izuna promptly backhands the little spirit hard enough to make it tumble off of Hashirama’s head, flapping and kicking with intent all the while. “I don’t care how happy you are, you  _ ask _ before manhandling people.” The irony isn’t lost on him, it’s just that the situation is different when he’s the one being fondled. “Off, off, off,” he continues to shriek, wriggling mightily to detach the vice grips around his ankles. 

“But you’re family,” Hashirama laughs, as if that one achingly correct statement justifies what he thinks is a great new game. No amount of struggling or clawing at the man’s bark-like skin seems to be effective. He just continues to trot down the trail, taking ridiculously long, bouncing steps. It’s like how they used to cavort back when they were chicks, but Hashirama isn’t in fox form anymore and straddling his withers like this is  _ mortifying. _ There’s no help to be had from Madara and Indra save him the amount of face he’s probably losing in Tobirama’s eyes. 

Fuck. 

More hideous kodama start to populate on his thighs, clinging to his arms, and tugging on his wings. No matter how much he flails, they just keep coming, replacing one felled spirit with two like a particularly vexatious Hydra.

Panting and finally pushed to the point of defeat, Izuna curls his wings in tight and drops his weight back to hang upside down against Hashirama’s back. His nostrils flare and the air whooshes in, harsh in his lungs. At least this way he doesn’t have to see what havoc the glowing shit stains are wreaking on his feathers. 

Too many tails swish under his head, but they keep his hair from dragging the ground, so there’s that. At least one part of him won’t look like it was tossed through a bramble bush. Tousan, in his great and infinite wisdom, had better hurry up clacking talons with Senju Butsuma so they can get out of this hell-hole. 

A deep, resonating laugh draws his attention away from the awful assault being perpetrated on his person and has him focusing instead on an upside down image that he makes sure to sear into his memory banks. 

Madara has always been such a glorious study in the interplay of light and shadow—skin set to glow against the smattering of feathers dusting the exposed V of his chest and a handsome face hidden beneath hair so black it burns. His mate is the most alluring of all tengu and any dissenting opinions can kindly free fall from a cliff. And now, walking shoulder to shoulder with Tobirama—eyes bright as they take turns gesticulating over some shared interest or another—his stark beauty is only more apparent. His Nii-san isn’t a scholar by any means, but he’s a well-learned tengu and has dipped his talons in a myriad of subjects. It’s no small wonder they’ve hit it off. 

A lightness pervades Izuna’s chest, makes his stomach flip. Amazing how longing can take root even in a bond they’ve already cemented time and time again. Maybe he should court Madara a second time just to make it clear how utterly besotted he is. 

He smiles softly. Tobirama, too, of course. 

With some gentle coaxing and obfuscated shaping, there’s potential there for a truly amazing addition to their nest. A kitsune to love and carry their eggs without running the risk of burning the delicate yolks or being injured by the heat their shells radiate. Madara will have his incubator and Izuna will no longer have to live with the guilt of his own inherent failures as a mate. 

They’ll all be happy and mornings will be filled with the bright sound of tiny peeps. 

Though, the fact that Tobirama apparently took the chance earlier to not only tug his haori back into place, but also hide his soul-tails resonates oddly. Strange. A mystery for later. 

Massive red pillars rise up to either side of a now stone path, resolving into torri the deeper they travel. Izuna only belatedly realizes Hashirama has been talking to him for the past however long he’s been content to hang against his back and dream of the future, though surely nothing worth noting. 

It’s only when he feels a warm, wet heat on his inner thigh just above his knee that he regrets that assumption. 

“Did you just lick me?” he shrieks so loud a scatter of leaves rain down from above. In his affront, he doesn’t even realize they’ve reached the shrine proper. 


	9. Tobirama's POV

If this morning has taught Tobirama anything, it’s that tengu are either excedingly competent or excruciatingly stupid.

There is no middle ground.

They can expertly diffuse a situation with a few wry comments and the offering of tea, or attack opponents twice their size and thrice their ability without hesitation or consideration for their own wellbeing—sacrificing all in the name of family. Unless Uchiha Izuna’s complete lack of survival instinct is reserved only for the protection of a mate, who is also family, and quite possibly a littermate if Uchiha Madara’s terminology translates the same between species of Yōkai. The particulars aren’t quite clear enough for Tobirama to draw a solid conclusion.

All he knows for certain is that these tengu make no sense at all.

Stroking each other’s’ tails in mixed company like an invitation to join in their mating games. Latching onto his hips from behind as if to mount him—again for anyone to watch—only to impart a kernel of wisdom and trounce off. It’s all so bizarre and filled with mixed messages.

Izuna knows they’re soul mates. He wouldn’t have called attention to Tobirama’s exposed tails otherwise. And while the realization that the Uchiha heir wants the bond denied as well stings, it’s also a blessing to know that there is another force on his side willing to obfuscate an interspecies connection from the Senju.

At least Hashirama won’t be able to surmise the true depths to which he’s fallen. 

Heart in his throat, Tobirama reaches into his chakra wells and takes the cool skeins in hand, braiding them together on his fingertips. Each invisible knot resonates through him and shifts the world around them. The chill of a pocket dimension smoothing down his feathered tails sends a shiver up his spine and by the time his eyelids have stopped fluttering, Izuna’s hastily erected screen disappears to be replaced by unrepentant kit-play.

Tobirama adjusts the waterfall of silk against his hips and smooths the rich, bunched up fabric gathered at his waist as he watches the tableau play out. Hashirama is so obviously baiting the tengu, and Izuna eagerly swallows the line each and every time.

Ridiculous. Unless it’s a ploy?

Vacillating between cleverness and idiocy between breaths, Tobirama truly has no idea what to make of Uchiha Izuna especially. He would make for a complicated mate—puerile and frustrating despite his virtues—which is likely why Inari granted Tobirama another to maintain the balance. With the matching wing patterns and their mating already established, he’s well aware Madara is that anchor. And the tengu has certainly shown himself up to the task in only an hour. He’s the calm eye at the center of Izuna’s storm and has proven to be pleasant company thus far.

If not for the heinous repercussions, it might be a bond worth exploring. To be accepted entirely and completely as himself by not one, but two creatures who aren’t obligated to on account of being his siblings… 

He can hardly imagine being loved so wholly. 

Flexing his fists, Tobirama diverts his thoughts from their path.

Acceptance is a pretty notion, but there are so many insurmountable hurdles. Between the Uchiha brothers’ standing in their clan robbing Tobirama of his own, denying Hashirama his right to go out into the world, and Izuna apparently already working towards denying the bond, it’s just not feasible.

Not to mention any kits they had would suffer tremendously.

Tobirama pads slowly after the retreating party. 

Kitsune have long been notorious for turning away half-breeds with the exception of their illustrious clan head. For all the time Butsuma spent denying Tobirama his regard, he’s taken that forfeited paternal instinct and invested it tenfold into gathering the clan’s half-breeds to his den. Perhaps Tobirama’s crime was being born a kitsune in the first place. 

Regardless, Hashirama, the only true son Butsuma claims, is such a charismatic force that their clan as a whole is beginning to be more accepting of these things. But still, the touch-shy tentativeness Itama and Kawarama shared when they were first old enough to visit his mountain did not speak to easy acceptance.

Except of course when latched onto Butsuma’s teats. 

Come to think of it, bearing tengu tails would likely engender his absentee father’s acceptance, Tobirama thinks wryly. Even so, it’s not a subject he cares to linger on and fortunately these tengu serve as a suitable distraction from his maudlin thoughts. 

Madara, comfortable in his power and all the more beautiful for it, lets Hashirama and his kodama abduct Izuna as they please, choosing to fall back and accompany Tobirama instead. The conversation is amiable and inspiring—a discussion of the nature of wind and how to harness it for flight. He watches the tengu lose himself in the lesson, follows his hands as they draw pictures in the air, wings rising and falling in emphasis.

As the sunlight glints off of black-tipped claws, Tobirama knows what it is to capture a moment of peace.

Though, as all good things, this conversation too draws to a close as they approach the shrine proper. 

Izuna’s shriek draws him up short and yes, of course Hashirama has licked him. They’re old friends of a sort from what Tobirama has gathered. There’s no reason to carry on about a little social grooming when not half an hour ago he was having his tail stroked like a trollop.

“Senju Hashirama,” a smooth voice cuts through the affronted screaming, deceptively light and boasting such staunch control that Tobirama’s ears instantly catalogue it as dangerous. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the heir of such a prodigious clan, though I fear your reputation might suffer wearing such an _unsightly_ cape. It would be my honor to beat the dust out of it for you.”

Uchiha Tajima—the infamous Dragon’s Claw, head of the Uchiha clan, and father to Tobirama’s apparent soul-mates. For all the horror surrounding his name, Tajima is slighter than he would have expected. Light build, Izuna’s relatively diminutive height, and bearing a grace that doesn’t so much advertise ‘warrior’ as it does ‘dancer.’

Regardless, the glint of daring in his milky eyes belies the right bastard that smoke and brimstone scent suggests.

“Oh, hello,” Hashirama replies with a grin, somehow still managing to look poised with a violently struggling tengu beating him in the side of the head with his knees and snapping at his tails.

With. His. Mouth.

What in the shinigami’s name…there has to be some sort of cultural misunderstanding regarding social grooming and appropriate areas to touch. An Uchiha heir surely isn’t that extreme a whore.

“Izuna’s just playing, right, Izuna? I don’t think that really calls for a beating,” Hashirama says, yipping when his captive’s teeth finally catch. “And, um, who are you?”

Tajima’s eyebrows slowly creep up his forehead.

Fortunately, Madara chooses that moment to sweep forward and interject with all of the grace his anija lacks. “This is our father,” Madara hisses lowly as he battles Izuna’s flailing wings and finally gets a hold of his waist. Izuna instantly falls still and lets himself be manhandled and skillfully flipped back over Madara’s shoulders until his talons are firmly entrenched in the earth again.

He sputters on a mouthful of phoenix feathers and exhales a plume of smoke from his nose.

“Huh. I thought you would have been bigger,” Hashirama admits, brushing his hair back into place as the living vines sprout once more from his temples to twine up and form another diadem. The kodama stay conspicuously absent.

“Anija!” Tobirama thunders, only to be cut off by a raised hand. And there, the first tell of just how dangerous their guest is—deep calluses spaced precisely to where a javelin or gunbai would rest.

“I like you already,” Tajima chirps up at Hashirama, cocking his head as if studying some particularly interesting, yet inexplicable growth on a tree stump. He pats Hashirama’s stomach and skirts his hand over to take hold of the crook of his elbow. “Now, if you won’t allow me to beat my son, perhaps you’ll do me the honor of taking pity on this old man and whisking me away on a tour of the sights. Your father’s rather chilly reception when my contingent landed left quite a nasty impression, I’m afraid. But surely you’ll make it up to me with your company.”

His blind eyes scan the tree line behind them and linger on the shadow of the path they had just emerged from. A slight wind kicks up around them out of nowhere and sets the leaves to rustling.

Tajima smiles. 

“And you must be Senju Tobirama,” he announces in a rolling tone somewhere between a cat’s purr and a nightjar’s long, melodious trill. He pulls Hashirama along, much to his amusement, and moves in far closer than their lack of familiarity should warrant. “Another fine fox. You have eyes just like my boys. Tall, strong, lean like a tengu,” Tajima pauses to lean sideways and discretely glance around Tobirama’s side, “and unmated too?”

Tobirama keeps his silence because, contrary to Hashirama’s perpetual whining to the contrary, he did teach Tobirama at least some social skills along the way. Not many that stuck, but enough not to call out a blind man on his obvious attempt at subterfuge. Uchiha Tajima must have requested physical descriptions from his assistants prior to their meeting. That’s all.

“If we weren’t already at the table, I’d offer you one of them as added incentive,” he continues, tossing his head to indicate Madara and Izuna, mirroring each other in their crossed arms and long-suffering expressions. “Not Izuna, obviously. Wouldn’t want to start another war when you ultimately tried to give him back.”

Tajima continues gesturing in oddly sinuous movements that imply an additional layer of meaning to his words, not that Tobirama understands it. However, storming up to his father’s shoulder, Izuna begins to rapidly puff up, feathers rippling all the way from his temples to his wing tips.

“Tousan!” he forces out through grit teeth, and it’s interesting how an entire conversation can be had in the rapid rise and fall of their wings. Pitch black pinions stretch wide and contract in the sunlight, casting ripples through the patterns of color embedded in their glossy vanes—blue and purple, the same as Tobirama’s tails. Amazing how in the direct sunlight they shine without him having to squint to see their subtleties. Uchiha Tajima’s patterns are different, warmer hued, but Madara—Tobirama swallows hard—his are an exact match to his brother’s. 

Ignorant to Tobirama’s internal unease, Izuna lets loose a sustained hawk’s cry and settles. “Fine, but I’ll pay you back,” he answers aloud.

“You haven’t yet, but you’re always welcome to try,” Tajima chirps, throwing an arm over Izuna’s shoulders and knocking their heads together gently.

“Behave while this lovely kitsune shows me around.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Good answer, chick, even if we both know you’ll fail miserably,” he sing songs. 

Izuna, predictably as Tobirama is coming to find, throws a brief, dramatic fit, coming down near instantly with a touch.

These Tengu are so soft with each other, so comfortable to hold and be touched in turn. It honestly hurts to consider that their normal is everything Tobirama has been denied despite Hashirama’s best efforts to go overboard in compensation.

Foxes were never meant to live alone.

As if intent on destroying Tobirama completely, Tajima drags Hashirama along to where he can brush Madara’s bangs to the side and kiss the pale stretch of revealed forehead with a tenderness freely given. Tobirama stands stock still and focuses on keeping his expression flat.

“You have such a nice face. You should stop hiding it under all of this,” Tajima croons. “The squirrels here are going to think my best son is a portable nest.”

Madara takes the jibe calmly and cheeps once in acknowledgement. “We’ll see you at dinner, tousan.”

His response earns an honest laugh, a crack in the tengu’s façade. “You’re nowhere near as much fun to tease as your brother.”

“Someone has to keep the peace.”

“Good chick. Now, come along, Hashirama, show me this vaunted Senju hospitality I’ve heard so much about.” Another odd zephyr and Hashirama takes up his typical, empty chattering, leading the clan head away as if he were no more than a party-guest. It’s after they navigate their way towards another long rise of torii that Tobirama only belatedly realizes he didn’t say a word. Not a greeting, not a blessing—nothing to the father of the soul-mates he must deny. It’s only fitting that he not expend energy in making emotional connections to Yōkai he’ll never see again after this, he supposes.

The sharp clack of talons against stone announces Madara’s even, measured approach. “I’m sorry. Our father is,” he hesitates, grimacing, “an acquired taste. If you have time, there should be a second wing landing here shortly with offerings. As patron of this mountain, it’s only fair that go to you.”

Tobirama continues to watch his brother’s head bob until the slope of the mountain devours him entirely. Only then does he grunt an affirmation. “Yes, that would be fine.”

“And our gifts are way better than that shit the humans try to pass off to you as tofu,” Izuna adds, crinkling his nose. The motion sets the small feathers on his neck to fluttering like tiny slips of obsidian.

Tobirama’s eyes lock onto them immediately. He thinks of the hidden stash of treasures in his den, how perfectly both tengu would complement his aesthetic preferences, then he finally processes what Izuna said and doesn’t think on his hoard of treasures any further. 

“How precisely would you know that?” he rumbles ominously, to which Izuna only smiles with the force of a tengu well-versed in digging his own grave then climbing back out again.

Hopping sideways a couple of steps, he flares his wings and flaps just enough to add a bit of height to each bounce. “Inference,” he chirps. “It takes claws and several centuries worth of oral history to learn how to make the soy beans silky. Just ask Madara. Humans couldn’t possibly match our culinary skill.”

Remarkably, or not considering how close the two tengu are, Madara sees right through the nonsense.

“You stole from his shrine didn’t you?”

“I did not,” Izuna denies, brushing off the accusation as easily as he had with Tobirama. “I just happen to be incredibly insightful, thank you very much.” He spins in place, arms held behind his back to make himself look smaller, disarming. “And even if I did, I’d say it’s not even close to a fair trade for my courting haori, which I see you’re still wearing.”

Smooth against Tobirama’s skin and glittering with embroidered stars, it’s an indefinitely borrowed treasure that won’t be leaving his shoulders any time soon. Madara had made it clear that he didn’t _mind_ , or at least didn’t care to pursue reappropriating it, so Izuna can keep his insinuations to himself. 

“My pelt is attached to it, so it’s quite obviously mine,” he shoots back in challenge. One Izuna doesn’t take up. Instead he grins, far too pleased by the notion for a mate who doesn’t want their bond to be known, and flits around. 

He insinuates himself into the space between Madara and Tobirama and takes up each of their arms. “Obviously.”

Tobirama thinks to pull away, but with two contingents of delegates discretely watching the heirs’ interactions, he thinks better of it. Warm skin and the subtle drag of claws at the crook of his elbow where it’s softest is another rather strong motivator, though he’d never admit it aloud. Again, that mild scent of cracked acorns makes his stomach clench. He wants so badly, knowing he shouldn’t. 

Knowing he _can’t_. 

“You have no shame,” Madara mutters dryly, tweaking his brother’s ponytail. 

“Runs in the family,” Izuna quips back, yanking on Madara’s bangs twice as hard.

So easy to forget how influential these figureheads are with as amicable as they’ve been, Hashirama’s ill-considered attack aside. Particularly with how they include Tobirama in their games. Light teasing and familiar touches all geared specifically to keep him off balance. But now, as they round the last series of torii, he sees that these are in fact the heirs of the Uchiha clan, powerful beyond measure and effortless in the way they command respect. The two versions don’t quite mesh in his mind even though it’s plain to see that the tengu retinue has no such difficulties conflating them both. 

A windswept tengu almost of a height with Tobirama steps forward and bows deeply at the waist, pinions spread wide and sweeping the floor. “Madara-sama,” he greets, “we flew as quickly as we could.” His plumage doesn’t draw the eye as readily as Tajima’s sons’, a more dusky gray lashed through with old scars. However, as Tobirama takes in the other members of the contingent, he thinks that muted coloration is more the norm. Black eyes and dull feathers for every single one of them. How strange.

Tossing his head to clear the hair from his face with practiced grace, Madara accepts the obeisance and pats him on the shoulder as he strides past to inspect the wooden crates lashed tightly with strips of leather. “Thank you, Hikaku. We appreciate your commitment. Tajima would thank you too if he weren’t off gallivanting,” he says, snorting derisively.

Hikaku smartly keeps his peace, instead standing tall to take note of the bright kitsune eyes watching them with interest and glancing only briefly at Izuna’s hand where it clings firmly to Tobirama’s elbow.

“Should I go retrieve him?” he asks, trilling the words, but with less melody than Madara and Izuna are naturally inclined to. 

“We’ll be fine,” Izuna answers, pulling away from their interlinked arms to make his way towards the crates as well. Tobirama isn’t sure whether the reluctance is imagined, but even so, the warmth of him lingers. 

“It would be rude to make Senju Tobirama wait to be paid his respects.”

With that, Izuna casually drags a claw across the crates’ binding. The leather gives smooth as butter and the straps snap apart, slapping the flagstones. Before the sound has a chance to settle, the top of the crate flies open and a pile of silk slips over its rim to pool on the ground.

Inside, a tengu child bounces up to perch on the lip of the crate and let out a caw bigger than its slender body should be able to produce. 

Izuna chirps, frozen in place.

The chick looks around expectantly with its little arms and wings spread wide, so obviously hoping for congratulations in pulling off such a successful prank. Playing a trick like this sounds like something Kawarama would do, but there’s no cheering. No amused accolades. The tengu delegates all begin to back away as if spooked. The one with the gnarled scar across the backs of his wings, Hikaku, whips around and insistently ushers the kitsune observers back.

Wise in the way of children and animals, the chick’s huge grin falters, falling in increments until he lowers his arms and shifts around with a nervous cheep.

“Um, hi?”

What the problem is, Tobirama can’t begin to hazard a guess, though there is a sudden static to the air—a power rising and growing thicker, more oppressive with each passing second.

Shaking, Izuna reaches down into the crate of offerings and gently picks the chick up, cradling it close to his chest and tucking its head under his chin. “Kagami? What are you doing here?” he asks, words oddly stilted.

Kagami lets loose a long string of peeps, growing faster and more pronounced until he falls silent with obvious unease. “I—I wanted to surprise you,” he says so low Tobirama has to strain his fox ears to hear it.

Izuna’s eyes snap shut, the tendons along his hands standing up in stark relief where they hold tight to his precious little bundle. “Eggshell,” Izuna croons, the tremor now obvious in his voice as well as his body. He tries to speak again, but ends the strained warble with a glottal click when no more words are forthcoming. 

Tobirama wonders if this is Izuna’s chick with the way he clings. It would explain why the Uchiha is helping Tobirama hide their soul connection if he has a family already. But then one of the party members behind them shifts, claws clacking on stone, and all consideration of a familial connection falls by the wayside. Drawn by the noise, Izuna snaps his head to look over his shoulder and lets out a multitonal shriek so vibrant and powerful the shrine shakes with it. Mortar rattles loose from between the blocks of the Inari gate. Even the key from the guardian’s mouth clatters to the ground with an eerie finality. 

And when Tobirama looks back to Izuna, blood spills sluggishly from eyes of such a deep red they begin to burn black at the edges.

There was murder on his breath when Izuna first flew over him to stop the threat of Hashirama’s charge little more than an hour ago. This, though…Tobirama has never seen this level of ravenous fury in his life. Something about it makes him still to avoid notice, a prey animal’s instinct. 

“Fuck,” Madara barks heartily and with feeling next to him. Too quickly for Tobirama to follow, he dives forward and slams his wings around Izuna and the chick in one fell swoop, snapping them shut like a steel trap. The strain is evident in the way they flex and buck, but Madara’s talons dig deep into the flagstones and shoot up sparks with how staunchly he holds firm. What appears to be vestigial claws extend from the feathers at his wings’ wrist joints and clamp together like the snapping of a lock. 

“Senju,” he calls out, voice more piercing than a hawk’s cry, “we need a clearing or something. Anywhere that’s not here!” 

Surprised by the sheer desperation in his contorted expression, Tobirama nods sharply and bounces on his paws once before taking off at a sprint across the platform of his shrine without question. He doesn’t hesitate to shove a path through the startled onlookers, kitsune and tengu alike, ruthlessly foraging his way through the press of bodies and bounding off into the trees. 

Branches whip his shoulders and face, their sting nullified by the surge of adrenaline. He’s not sure why he snapped to Madara’s command so readily, only that on some soul-deep level he understood it was necessary for the safety of their people and the integrity of the accord as a whole. Something innate knows this is a matter of more import than maintaining diplomatic face—more important than pretending to be something he’s not.

Chakra takes hold, spilling from his feet in long trails of foxfire. The blue flames lick at his skin, darker and darker until they turn as black as the tomoe in Izuna’s eyes. Muscle thickens along his legs, knee joints buckling and throwing him forward onto his forelegs without missing a stride. Fur ripples across his now vulpine body—far softer and lighter than the typical kitsune coat—and allows him to slice through the air on paws as ephemeral as clouds.

Behind him the heavy footfalls turn to silence and he knows that were he to look back the sky would be blotted out by wings. Their shadows race to envelop him even now.

Blood pounds in his ears as his paws work the ground. The ache of exertion burns, yet still he pushes on.

Faster.

Faster.

 _There_.

He veers off from the tree line and squints into the rising sun. Panting heavier than a forge bellows, he bounds up a massive rock fall and leaps over the crest, hindquarters coiling and releasing explosively at the summit. All three of his tails unfold behind him as he soars through the air and lets the lush valley pass below him. Tree tops sway in the breeze and tall grass waves from a vast pocket tucked into a bend in the river. It’s beautiful. If not for his racing heart and the very immediate threat of whatever it is they’re running from, he wishes he could make this moment stretch on forever. 

Suddenly there’s a muscular arm wrapping around the barrel of his ribs and the glory of that imagined flight is made wholly and intimately real.

Madara’s chest flexes rhythmically against his withers with each beat of wings. The power of them is substantial, commanding. Despite the circumstances, Tobirama presses up to feel the line of heat against his spine—fire, and wind, and everything that speaks of divine providence. 

Flame bursts to life along his soul tails.

“Hold on,” Madara calls out as he pulls his wings in close and cants them down. Immediately after his warning, the air comes faster, sharper, and Tobirama has to squint to save his eyes from the force of the dive. Air whooshes past. Deaf and blind, the abrupt jerk of wings snapping open and beating so powerfully Tobriama can feel it in his bones startles a yip from him. A heartbeat later, Madara slams into the turf with a jarring impact, Izuna not a second behind.

The dirt barely settles before Izuna is on them.

“I’m sorry, Nii-san! I’m so sorry!” he begins immediately, fluttering all over in panic. The chick in his arms stays curled up tightly against his breast, face buried in the crook of his neck and not making a sound. “I didn’t mean to—” he breaks off mid-sentence only to stutter and try again, pleading, “there were too many—it was _Kagami_.”

Cooing softly, Madara sets Tobirama down in the grass in order to cradle Izuna’s jaw between his palms. “It’s okay, Otouto,” he soothes, gifting his mate a chaste kiss to ease the obvious terror. “It was a shock for all of us. Tousan and the delegation will understand. _I_ understand.”

And like a marionette, Izuna collapses against him.

It’s a testament to Madara’s strength that he takes the weight without complaint, easing their family of three down to the soft ground. Difficult to find where one ends and the other begins amidst the voluminous pile of feathers and limbs. 

“Shit,” Izuna hisses through grit teeth, grinding his sweaty forehead against Madara’s haori. “I shouldn’t have activated my sharingan like that. There were just too many foxes. They were all I could see. Enemies _everywhere_.”

“Shhh, Kagami is safe now,” Madara says, sparing a glance for Tobirama.

He’s not sure if it’s a warning to keep his distance or an explanation for Izuna’s near catastrophic meltdown. Perhaps both?

Again, Madara’s fingers sink into the ruffled feathers of Izuna’s tail and Tobirama realizes that yes, he is missing something here. So many ‘somethings’ that he can’t even begin to understand the intricacies of the brothers’ dynamic. Their son finally lifts his head, butting Madara’s chin with a soft hoot.

“Madara-sama? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you and Izuna-sama sad. I just wanted to show you I could be cool like ‘Zuna and outsmart Hikaku.” He sniffles softly and bites his lip. “Haha and Chichi don’t know I snuck out.”

‘Haha' and 'Chichi'?

This chick isn’t their son, then.


	10. Madara's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks, I was too busy to edit the chapters last weekend. I'll post another tomorrow to make up for it. :D

Madara knows his brother as well as he knows himself. They were hatched from the same egg bearing the same heart.

It’s not like Izuna to allow someone this close—close at all really—prospective incubator or otherwise, particularly not with Kagami involved. For all of the ridiculous posturing and bickering they do, Izuna and Kagami are so attached that the chick has been adopted in all but name, much to Uchiha Terutake and Uchiha Shuri’s chagrin.

It’s not so much that they’ve lost a son as gained an additional set of co-parents. At least that’s what Tajima tells them whenever the subject comes up in council meetings. And it does. Repeatedly.

Regardless, there’s no emotional connection here to justify the easy way Izuna pulls Tobirama close and snuffles into his thick, white fur, crooning, trilling, and carrying on the way he would in their nest. This isn’t the flattened divot Izuna has worn into their pile of futons; it’s not steeped in the familiar trappings of home that seem to be the only way to truly bring him back down from these explosive bouts of terror and aggression. They’re hip-deep in enemy territory, surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of fox-fire and suddenly there’s a pointy-eared dog-cat allowed in their safety pocket—pressed flush against Madara’s chest on one side, Izuna’s on the other, and frozen in what is most likely fear.

Madara can’t blame him. Senju Tobirama has proven to be clever and personable enough underneath the initial prickliness. Still, it’s so achingly obvious that he’s grown to adulthood on his own—unable to process an outsider’s touch as anything other than an attack on his person and unwilling to trust if what the kodama say is accurate. Not to mention he himself is now literally sandwiched by ancestral enemies. 

Indra guide them, they’re all so broken in such subtle ways.

“Madara-sama, are you mad?” Kagami prompts, patting Madara’s cheek gently and immediately skritching the soft fox-ears tickling his face when they turn to the sound. 

Such easy tenderness amongst his flock. 

“No, chick,” Madara answers finally. “You’re a smart egg. You don’t need me to tell you what you’ve done wrong.” He croons low in the back of his throat, nuzzling Kagami’s nest of curls aside to plant a kiss on his forehead. “You’ll have to apologize to your parents when we return, but for right now I need your help cheering Izuna up. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

Kagami nods excessively. It’s not his usual exuberance, but it’s a start. 

“I knew I could count on you. Here,” Madara spares one of the arms he has wrapped around his pile of precious people to sift through the contents of his travel pouch by feel. Cool stone presses against his fingertips and he very carefully retrieves a pair of extravagant earrings—another courting gift, this one an intricate twist of silver wire with sapphires housed in each whirl and, dangling from the center, a teardrop of exceptional cut and clarity. 

Even if they can’t fly with the most obvious sign of their mating exposed, they can sure as the pure lands wear them here where the thermals are soft and the love between them infinitely softer. 

He hands the delicate jewelry to Kagami—wide eyed in child-like wonder and beating his tiny wings as much as he can with them pinned to his back—and winks in encouragement. Careful in ways he simply isn’t, Kagami accepts them, poking out his tongue in concentration as he turns to put them on Izuna.

Such a gift, the chick and jewelry both. The magic of the moment breathes life back into his brother. Izuna looks up, sclera red but dry, and inhales shakily. 

“Sorry,” he whispers so softly it hurts, “It’s just…not Kagami.  _ Never _ Kagami. You know, Nii-san. I’ve seen too many.”

Madara can feel his brother’s jaw clench and strokes his back where flesh and feathers meet, eliciting a shudder, but one that seems to ease the more violent of his tremors. Tobirama remains still, obviously holding his breath and trying not to draw undo attention to himself. Which is ridiculous. He’s a fox in a hen house, though the idiom doesn’t exactly fit their relationship at all. If anything, Tajima is the loosed threat in this scenario, a crafty predator given free rein on Tobirama’s mountain. Even so, in their impromptu nest, his vulpine body doesn’t fit quite right—a fact he is apparently well aware of.

A sinuous wriggle and Madara watches as Tobirama finds the courage to stretch his muzzle and lick the tip of Izuna’s ear. The brilliant sapphire earring is set to spinning and casts sparkles of light on his feather-soft fur.

“Too many what?” he asks, voice as deep in this diminutive state as it is when he stands tall and imposing in his human skin.

Silence stretches so long Madara doesn’t think Izuna will say aloud what they both know, then he answers with a hollow: “Too many little bodies.”

Madara can feel Tobirama tense then fall completely lax. He’s an exceedingly intelligent kitsune and more than capable of reading between the lines. The same hands that clap in prayer at his shrine are guilty of acts more heinous than preparing substandard Inarizushi. Fortunately for them all, he doesn’t try to apologize. 

“It’s okay, ‘Zuna. I’m not hurt,” Kagami cheeps, misinterpreting the melancholy and patting Izuna’s cheek as he looks up with wide, soulful eyes. “So just think of this like an adventure.”

Izuna chuckles. An improvement, even if there’s no real humor in it. 

“We’re super-secret explorers and look, you already found a magical talking forest animal to guide us! We can hunt for treasures or mushrooms or something. Hi, whatever you are. I’m Kagami!”

“A talking forest animal, eh?” Now  _ that _ elicits something a little closer to a true laugh. “Eggshell, you know I love you, right?” Before Kagami can vibrate out of his skin, Izuna carefully knocks their foreheads together and speaks over his excited cheeping. “And you.” A firm, chaste kiss for Madara with only a hint of desperation. “And you, too.” Another chaste kiss pressed to the tip of Tobirama’s pink nose.

The reaction isn’t immediate—a slow whine, steadily building. Once it reaches a crescendo, Tobirama tries to scoot and wriggle his way out of the tangle of arms and wings, so careful to avoid bumping against Kagami despite his obvious panic. Little claws scrabble to find purchase, getting caught up in the folds of Madara’s extravagant kosode, which only makes Tobirama fight that much harder.

Twisting and writhing like a thing possessed, he manages to back his body up enough to free his tails. It’s impossible not to zero in on them. White fur and black tengu feathers with a red stamp on the tips, harkening the image of the front half of a bird’s foot emblazoned in blood.

The same marks that almost glow amongst the glossy black of Madara and Izuna’s feathers. 

They lash the air so close to Madara’s nose it’s amazing they don’t take out his eyes with how he stares, frozen in shock. Indra be damned. No wonder his romance-inclined mate is making professions of love to a creature they’ve only just met, toothsome as he may be. Suddenly their future seems a touch brighter and blessed with the melody of birdsong.

Kagami laughs, thinking it a great new game and strokes Tobirama’s muzzle back and forth against the grain. “It’s so wiggly!” he announces with a high-pitched chirp of excitement.

At that, Tobirama’s whine turns doleful and ends on a yelp when Madara instinctively lowers an elbow to block his haunches and any further chance of escape. He does it carefully and there’s no way it could have hurt the kitsune, but Tobirama acts as if he’s being bracketed by the jaws of a predator.

Peace accord or no, Butsuma is going to be eating owl pellets for a week after Tajima hears of this.

“Damn it. Would you stop fussing, Senju?” Madara snaps in misplaced frustration, only to get a muffled, uncertain snarl in return. Fine, if that’s how this is going to go down, then so be it. Izuna might have a better head for field tactics, but never let it be said that Uchiha Madara is too proud to withdraw in order to advance.

With an explosive sigh, he abruptly eases the tension in the arm trapping Tobirama and watches the slender fox tumble backwards to the ground in an ungainly pile of limbs and tails. Izuna tenses against him, but there’s no time for distractions. In an instant, Tobirama regains his paws and Madara’s sharingan captures each still frame image as they build a story of muscle flexing in preparation to flee.

Their unnatural eyes are an almost unfair advantage.

Before Tobirama’s fox fire even has a chance to catch, Madara slams a firm hand down just above his withers and scruffs the kitsune for the second time today.

“No you don’t,” he says dangerously and with all the give of a mountain. “Hands. Now.”

A hot puff of breath against his neck tells him the tone of voice is enough to have Izuna’s pulse kicking up a notch which, while not ideal considering this cluster fuck they just barely managed to avoid, at least it lets him know he’s effective. Most tellingly, Tobirama changes shape faster than he had the first time, much to his own surprise if his slack jawed gaping is anything to go by.

Fur ripples back down and away from his shoulders so fast a downy swatch remains clutched in Madara’s fist, peeking out between his fingers. Izuna’s haori spills around him a second later, all skyline blue with the trappings of stars. He’s a stunningly beautiful creature even if Madara doesn’t have the time to properly appreciate the celestial bent of artistry in that trim waist and strong hips right now.

There’s not even the space of a breath free to comment on the lovely bloom of red wrapped around the back of Tobirama’s neck—the soul-mark Madara must have unknowingly laid when they first met. Hashirama had spoken of the vibrant chakra imprints when they were dew-eyed chicks, but the stories pale in comparison to the reality of seeing his own soul etched into the skin of another.

If this burgeoning joy is anything close to what Hashirama felt at finding his phoenix, it’s a small wonder he bounces around as gaily as he does.

As soon as Tobirama’s body stops shifting, Madara swallows past the tightness in his throat and all but shoves Kagami into his arms. The chick is hardy, he can take a little rough handling—likes it judging by the staccato burst of bird song. 

“What is this?” Tobirama yips, nostrils flaring in panic as he fumbles for a brief second.

Amazing to find someone as dramatic as Izuna. Soul-mates indeed.

“That’s a Kagami. You put him down or drop him and I’ll pluck you bare,” Madara proclaims, allowing a flicker of Amaterasu’s wrath to flash briefly in his eyes. Strange how similar the waving flames are to those Tobirama had wrapped around his paws as they raced through the forest.

Unable to look away from the slip of terror thrust into his arms, Tobirama rocks up to his hind paws, nostrils flaring. “This is absurd!” he stresses, stiller than a statue and accomplishing the miraculous feat of both pulling away as far from Kagami as he can while pressing the chick to his chest tight enough for the definition in his forearms to deepen. For a moment Madara thinks their new mate’s spine might snap from the strain.

“ _ You’re _ absurd. Now be a good magical animal guide and go hunt mushrooms.”

The swift progression of red sweeping up Tobirama’s neck to the tips of his hair makes for an interesting contrast. Like a lobster, sharing those same sharp edges and impenetrable carapace.

“ _ Excuse me _ ?”

Fortunately, Kagami chooses that exact moment to start flapping his little black wings and hopping up and down as much as he can in the cradle of Tobirama’s arms. Loose feathers float about them, his eagerness as effective as a preening. “You’re a star-fox! That’s so much cooler than a talking animal. I bet you know where the  _ best  _ mushrooms are, right?” Before Tobirama has a chance to bark out a denial regarding mushrooms and the situation in general, Kagami lets out a high pitched whistle and flaps harder. “Tajima Heika loves, loves,  _ loves _ matsutake! I bet if we find some he’ll be so happy he lets us steal his leg bands without tricks!”

The thrice damned leg-band game.

Stale air and cold winds on the head of whomever invented that monstrous excuse for Tajima to steal his own warriors’ martial leg bands and trick chicks into taking the fall when he himself was intended to be the target. Surely there is a better way to train chicks in the tenants of stealth. Anything. Capturing bells, even. 

Madara rolls his eyes and hefts Izuna further into his lap to fill the vacated space.

“You heard the chick. If you want to ingratiate your clan by extension into my father’s good graces, you should bring him a gift.” A gift and a shock collar.

Doing the bulk of the convincing for him, Kagami flutters all over and grabs Tobirama by the cheeks to tilt his head down. “Please, star-fox?” he begs sweetly. When Tobirama continues to stare, brow furrowed and lip curled in uncertainty, Kagami clips the final pinion and allows his lower lip to wobble.

Clever chick.

Capitulation hits harder than a winter gale and visibly drains the fight from Tobirama. His shoulders fall lax and loose and while his grip doesn’t falter, it does weaken enough for Kagami to at least regain color in his toes.

“Fine. Yes. My name is Senju Tobirama, not ‘star-fox’.”

“Okay! Let’s go, Tobi-sensei.” 

Kagami shoots a fist up into the air and whoops, taking advantage of his new mount’s surprise by pointing the way at random. The yellow paint on his outstretched talon catches the light and Tobirama’s eye along with it. There are so many customs he’ll have to learn before being fully integrated into their nest, but he’s proven a quick mind with a memory sharper than his tongue thus far. Madara has no doubt he’ll be steeped in the trappings of their culture in no time.

“Keep to the valley,” he warns, waving them off. However, the motion goes unseen as Tobirama lopes dutifully towards a shady copse of trees amidst a sea of green and blue. There’s no acknowledgement, only the quick swivel of one ear, back and away again. Good enough. 

Effectively alone, Izuna shifts his position to sit more properly with his thighs around Madara’s hips and scoots his bottom close in the space between his legs. He locks his ankles together and spreads his wings wide, all but draping them atop Madara's. “That’s not your usual. You know something,” he says slowly, testing the shape of the words.

Amazing how perceptive his mate is underneath all of the pomp and bustle.

“I do. In a moment, though. Are you alright?” Madara allows his wings to fold easily under Izuna’s—allows his brother to claim that vulnerability. Though the regularity of traumatic resurgence has lessened thanks in part to the ceasefire enacted six months ago and more consecutive nights spent tucked up against Madara’s back, Izuna is not without his scars. The flock knows. They all understand,Madara most of all.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Nii-san,” Izuna cheeps, stealing a quick peck on the lips. Gentle fingers card through Madara’s hair and push it away from his face. The reverence in Izuna’s touch is far more convincing than his spoken affirmation.

“And you’re fine with Senju Tobirama watching our ch—Kagami?”

No sudden tension, no flicker of feathers rising up to stoke the flame of apprehension.

“That’s fine too,” Izuna says, a smile obvious in his tone even as he buries it in the voluminous mass of Madara’s hair. The way he instantly melts and croons his appreciation has Madara’s body reacting instinctively, curling forward to pull his mate in tight against him. His wings snap out, broader and larger than Izuna’s—built for endurance and strength—then sweep over them both to shut away the outside world.

A pale, hard won smile and Kagami’s filthy hands raised in triumph are the last thing he sees before Izuna’s gravitational pull captures his attention once more amidst a backdrop of black and red.

“You said you love him,” he says into the warm, quiet pocket. His voice is deep, the breadth of his affection for this tengu ten times deeper.

Izuna knowingly nuzzles up under his chin, nipping at his throat and running claws down the trail of feathers dusting his pectorals.

“Well, not yet, but soon maybe,” he replies enigmatically. “Plus, it wouldn’t have been right to say ‘I love everyone here except for you’.”

Madara concedes the point with a nod. “True. I’d still like to know what the Senju heir could have possibly done in half a day to earn the right to your love. Don’t mince words with me, Otouto, I’ve seen how hard it is for you to let tengu close, much less a kitsune.”

“Are you  _ jealous _ ?” Izuna asks slyly, voice still flavored by a tentative note of unease.

It’s dim in their private cloister of feathers, but even so, Madara can feel the way Izuna shifts restlessly. Whether it’s the lingering remnants of fear from his episode or genuine concern, he can’t place it.

“Not in the slightest,” he answers honestly, allowing a moment for his words to sink in. Still, Izuna keeps his secrets guarded, not offering to speak further unless prompted. Best to bind his wings and dive headlong, then.

“How long have you known the three of us were soul-mates?

A long, slow inhale and an exhale just as unhurried. It’s a testament to his character that Izuna doesn’t try to deflect or purposefully misunderstand, simply curls up closer. “Not long. Since I nearly gutted your friend this morning. Well, no. I knew about Tobirama when my wings changed, but I thought that meant you weren’t my soul-mate so I didn’t bother mentioning it. I could have used the bond to ask Tobirama to incubate for us and after that I would have let it wither. Then I saw his tails and it was kind of a moot point.” 

He shrugs like his confession is nothing noteworthy. To purposefully let a soul bond wither—

There’s something about knowing—that primal link between the mind and the body that won’t allow for anything else once a soul-bond is realized. Madara has seen the ramifications of a broken bond, typically in those tengu who found each other later in life. The incessant agony, like having their heart torn out string by string over the course of years until eventually they just…stopped. Catatonic bodies and unblinking eyes staring off into the skies as if Indra were calling them home to try again. And perhaps the kami was, because the next day there was only ever an empty aerie.

He recalls Tajima bowing his head over each loss—recalls his father thanking every kami and the shinigami too for his blind eyes in the nights after, always under his breath where Madara was never meant to overhear. 

That his brother would ever conceivably consider such a fate is both unconscionable and heart rending.

“I want you to know I’m upset with you, Otouto,” he intones gravely.

Izuna doesn’t try to argue, merely starts preening by feel alone. “You should be.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we even courted in the first place…”

Now that sparks a response. “Nii-san, please,” Izuna trills lowly, scooting forward and clinging so tight that there’s no telling where one of them ends and the other begins.

Like being back in the egg again. Sharing breath. Echoing each other’s heart beats.

Madara clears his throat and tries to fight the sudden dryness in his mouth as he returns the embrace just as fiercely. “And then I realize it’s because you remind me every single day in every conceivable way how in love with you I am,” he swallows, taking a moment to collect himself, “and just how far you’re willing to go to show that you feel the same. I can’t tell you how honored I am to have you as a mate, even if I have the overwhelming urge to pluck you half the time.”

“But only half,” Izuna murmurs into his neck.

“Only half. You’ll always be my balance, koibito, and even if we hadn’t turned out to be Indra’s chosen pair, I would never have stopped holding you in my heart.”

They don’t cry as a rule, no matter how their eyes burn and chests ache. Madara can recall those rare instances of them shedding tears on one hand and still have fingers to spare. And so, the throbbing takes him aback, has him burying that overwhelming emotion in a wet, desperate kiss. Izuna meets him with mirrored passion and takes as greedily as he always does—insistent exploration and the suggestion of teeth. Familiar and practiced, they learn each other all over again until the worst of the flood of emotion has passed. 

Surprisingly, it’s Izuna that pulls away first, sweeping in for another kiss before they can even part fully, then pushing himself back as if by force. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says, a touch breathless, “I know how important this peace accord is and between my instincts going haywire around all of these kitsune and…If I told you and he denied the bond you would have broken.”

Madara groans. He doesn’t deserve this tengu.

“It’s possible. But you would have been there to pick up the pieces,” he rumbles, leaving no room for the universe to question their commitment. Let the fates try. He’ll meet them with gunbai in hand and the blue flames of his secret Susanoo grasping for their throats with fingers hot as fox-fire. 

“ _ Always _ ,” Izuna echoes with equal conviction.

He’s not sure how long they embrace and stroke each other’s plumage just for an excuse to keep touching, slowly letting elation fill the pits sorrow had dug along the way. They have a chance to make things right—to fill their nest with eggs, family, and the contented snuffling of not one, but two mates. 

“Be aware, Tobirama has had a hard life and he may still deny the soul-bond. The best we can do is try,” Madara admits into the comfortable quiet, kissing Izuna’s earlobe right on top of where Tobirama had licked it, mindful not to bend the silver wire of his earring. 

Izuna snorts, finally letting his wings fall just enough to let in warm sunlight against Madara’s face. “Is that why he’s such a confident, unrepentant ass one minute, then as skittish as a snow hare the next? Did you see his face when you shoved Kagami at him? I thought he was about to have an aneurysm,” he recounts, laugh as bright and clear as the chime of bells. 

It’s Madara’s favorite sound. His own deep hoots rise up to join him. 

It takes a long minute to sober, but it feels so good to share this moment of joy. Two soul-mates...it’s unbelievable in the best of ways. 

“He wasn’t raised the way we were. From what I gather it was just him and Hashirama on that mountain, and Hashirama wasn’t always around. Hard to know how to respond to softer feelings when you’ve only ever experienced them from one person.”

“Well, lucky for him we’re good at loving.”

So very well-versed. 

Madara watches leaves flutter over his brother’s shoulder and wonders how Tobirama will take to the concept of a nest filled with soft things that smell like home instead of those filthy holes in the ground foxes favor. Not that he would deny their kitsune anything, but glancing at the lingering tufts of white that cling to his talons, he’s not sure whether a den is something Tobirama prefers or something he was trained to. 

He spreads his fingers wide and holds his hand up to the light, turning it slowly to capture each new facet revealed. 

Fur doesn’t have quills, down, or vanes. At the same time, Madara has never seen feathers so fine and small, and still wouldn’t have if not for his unique visual prowess. Perhaps a nest would be best for their kitsune-not-a-kitsune. 

“I suppose a little leniency can be had considering he’s our soul-mate,” Madara agrees, humming contentedly. His easy admission has Izuna rearing back and pinning him in place with a grin so blinding he has to kiss it away out of self-preservation. 

His tactics don’t work, but they do add a pleasant undercurrent of want to the boundless delight. 


	11. Tobirama's POV

This kit is daring in ways kitsune simply aren’t.

Foxes are skittish by nature and even sitting secure in his birthright and the swell of power that comes along with it, Tobirama can’t quite tamp down on that reflexive need to bolt when faced with the unknown. Hashirama takes after his mother with all the blunt invasiveness of a tree root and an expectation that the world will bend to him in any context. Which it does more often than not. Whether that’s a good or bad thing Tobirama has yet to determine, but he’s often the beneficiary, so he hasn’t questioned it too deeply. 

This thrice-cursed kit, though. No. Even in his own thoughts he chastises himself.  _ Kagami _ is bold in the way of a child who has always had loving hands to guide him away from the fire. He’s experienced nothing but affection and grown confident not only in his own abilities, but also in knowing that were he to fail, an entire clan would be there to raise him up again.

That kind of care and support is so inherent in everything the tengu do, especially the two Tobirama’s soul has claimed without his leave. Soft touches. Strong arms to hold each other when one falters. The telltale scents of mountains, forest, and that warm undercurrent of char permeating them both so thickly he can’t distinguish between the two by scent alone.

Romantic love.

An entirely alien concept and one he wants to be able to taste so badly it  _ aches _ . He can still hear the steady beat of his mates’ hearts, feel their warmth pressed against him from all sides as Izuna said…

It doesn’t matter what he said. 

Despite the celestial pull of Inari’s choice opening up a hole in his chest—desperately needing to be filled and strengthening its call every hour Madara and Izuna are close—Tobirama can’t allow himself to be made weak by traps and pitfalls. Izuna all but told him to hide his tails before his episode, an obvious rejection of the bond and admonishment for Tobirama’s inattentiveness. If becoming the primary heir in Hashirama’s stead is the only thing he can accomplish in this life, then it will be a life well lived, loneliness notwithstanding.

It will. It  _ has  _ to be. 

Pushing his haphazard hair back into place, Tobirama sits on a throne of leaf litter and watches his charge cavort, digging his little talons in and climbing a couple meters up the bole of a pine tree before sliding back down in a shower of bark. He lets out a disappointed yip. No, a whistle? It’s difficult to tease out what his sounds are exactly, though the intent is clear enough.

“No luck?”

“No,” Kagami whines, the very picture of dejection, “I thought for sure this would be the one!”

Flicking his ears towards the sudden splash of a carp in the nearby river, Tobirama nods with what he hopes comes off as an air of commiseration. He’s not well versed enough in kits to know if it’s effective or not. Fortunately it offsets the trembling lip that he could see coming. An appropriate reaction, then. 

“I’m not familiar with their scent, otherwise I would help,” he admits. Mushrooms aren’t exactly his forte even if the forest insists on making them rise up when his foxfire burns particularly bright. For all he knows, they might be buried in the dirt as truffles are instead of growing on tree bark like little shelves. Kagami was unsure, though he was fairly insistent that it was this species of tree in particular that would house them. By all means pine trees shouldn’t even be growing in this valley where the soil is dark, rich, and perpetually damp.

Leave it to Hashirama to make even the strongest of crowns fold. Maybe transplanting some elusive mushroom will be part of his brother’s magic as well. 

Tobirama cocks his head and reaches out to gently nudge Kagami’s drooping wing with his hind paw. “I may not be able to track them by scent, but I have acquaintances who are adept in all manner of things involving the forest,” he offers.

The reaction is instantaneous.

“Really?”

Squawking so loudly it makes Tobirama’s sensitive ears swivel back, Kagami launches himself at Tobirama’s lap, immature wings flapping up tiny gales. The kit squirms and wriggles until he’s comfortably nestled with his face shoved into Tobirama’s stomach, talons dangerously close to dragging runs in the blue silk.

Again, Tobirama’s instincts flare up to push away, evade, run until his paws grow heavy and his flames burn out. He’s being embraced and has no idea what to do except sit stiff as a rock outcropping and take it so as not to hurt the kit. Too there’s the very real threat of Kagami’s minders wrapped up in each other’s wings only a field away. This is an impossible situation. Fortunately, the more immediate danger to his haori wins out over the panic, keeps him rooted in more terrestrial worries.

“Kagami,” he scolds, “you can be excited, but you must be mindful not to destroy the property of others.”

At that, Kagami stops fidgeting for the most part, only his tail feathers failing to cotton on to the gentle rebuke.

“Oh, I know,” he cheeps, looking up with eyes made glassy by the brightness of the sun at their back. “That’s one of the pretty clothes Madara-san gave Izuna-san, like the presents Haha gives Chichi. I’m not allowed to poke holes in presents. I forgot one time when Tajima Heika was really nice and let me sleep in his nest, but he said it was okay because it was just an accident and he didn’t really care about that old thing anyways.”

Tobirama balks under the wall of words, unsure what to think.

“And Madara-san and Izuna-san wouldn’t  _ ever _ give away their pretty clothes,” Kagami continues, shaking his head so hard his curls spring back and forth with the motion, “so you must be really special and I promise I’ll be careful not to poke holes in your presents either. Can we get some mushrooms now, Tobi-sensei?”

Swallowing heavily, Tobirama pats Kagami’s head with the flat of his palm a couple of times. When there’s no rebuke or shying away from his touch, he slowly allows his fingers to curl down and sift through his feather-soft hair. The weight and the warmth of the kit isn’t terrible. There’s a lingering patina of mate-scent on him, and there’s none of the expectation that might come from his tengu mates with regard to professions of lo…well, professions in any event.

It’s easy, low grade affection and Tobirama’s heart seizes with it. 

“Yes. Of course, kit,” he says, trying out an endearment.

Kagami’s brow furrows, his glowing smile turning awkward at the corners. “What’s a kit?” There’s a pause where they both simply stare at each other in confusion.

“A young fox,” Tobirama says before Kagami’s face can fall any further, though the lilt in his voice at the end frames it as a question.

“Oh! No, no, no, Sensei, I’m a chick! ‘Zuna calls me Eggshell,” Kagami chirps with a renewed bloom of good cheer, rolling onto his back and kicking his bird-feet in the air as he laughs in an odd series of clicks and whistles.

This is difficult. There are so many things Tobirama doesn’t quite understand—so many nuances to interacting with species that aren’t zenko or zenko-adjacent. This kit is a ‘chick’ and subjected to a diminutive that harkens all the way back to its hatching. Is that typical tengu verbiage or is Izuna a particularly extravagant brand of infant himself? 

“Very well,” he hesitates only briefly, “Eggshell. I’m going to make a loud noise to call forth the spirit of the forest. Please do not be alarmed and mind your claws.”

“Talons!”

Tobirama sighs. “Yes, mind your talons.”

With that, he pats Kagami’s stomach and allows his hand to rest there in reassurance as he throws his head back to open his throat and let loose a yip loud enough to bring down pinecones. Kagami cheeps and shrieks with joy when Tobirama’s tails arch over his back to slap the spiky missiles out of the air before they hit too close.

Eyes squinted nearly shut in joy, Kagami ineffectually kicks to snatch at the wavering tails with his feet.

“Look! You have feathers too, just like me!”

And because Inari is obviously punishing him, now another tengu knows about his connection to their stock. Before the day is out he’s going to cut the damn things off. However, before he can warn Kagami to keep this a secret between them, the near silent swoosh of feathers alerts him to the presence looming over them before Madara’s shadow even falls.

Fighting to right himself, Kagami pitches out of the bowl of Tobirama’s lap head first and awkwardly runs towards Madara, doing a sideways hop to get a little more air. Without slowing his stride, Madara scoops Kagami up one handed and plants him securely on his hip. He comes to a stop right next to Tobirama’s shoulder—a powerful presence made even more imposing by the massive black wings half extended to either side of him. The position makes looking up uncomfortable, but that slight ache is nothing compared to the way his pulse starts to race.

“I recall very specifically telling you not to set Kagami down,” Madara states in his smooth, even baritone.

The remembrance of reverberations against his flank where this tengu’s powerful chest pressed up against him and spoke such tenderness right next to his sensitive fox ears. Tobirama shivers and snaps his attention towards the squadron of kodama rounding the bole of the tree Kagami had been climbing and examining the scratches.

Such piercing red eyes—Tobirama can still see their afterimage. 

“So you did. I don’t have any feathers to pluck, but you’re welcome to try,” he retorts dryly, proud to note his voice comes out strong and steady despite the phantom sensation of hands stroking down his back.

Madara lets loose an snort of amusement, echoed immediately after by Izuna’s raucous caw.   
  


“Please. I would have enough to stuff a futon by the time I was done with you,” Madara retorts, squatting down to set Kagami on his feet and urge the chick to go make friends amongst the kodama with a light pat on the bottom. 

Cawing in delight, the chick runs over and immediately sets to sifting out scraps of bark from the grass, chattering in rapid staccato bursts about what Tobirama taught him regarding mushrooms and where to find them, which was achingly little. It’s only after Kagami runs out of air that he remembers to wheeze his own name. As far as introductions go, it’s apparently effective. The kodama chitter and shake as if deep in conversation with the chick and accept each paper-thin sheaf of bark with an excited little hop every time.

It’s another soft moment that hits harder than it should.

Distracted as he is, it takes Tobirama a moment to tear his eyes away from the domesticity of the scene and by the time he processes Madara’s quip, Izuna is already piping up.

“Really, Nii-san? That would be a pretty sad futon. There’s enough feather down for a couple of pillows, maybe,” he chirps, purposefully nudging one of Tobirama’s soul tails as he comes to stand next to his shoulder, arms crossed and tossing down a wink.

The tail wraps around his slender ankle of its own volition, to the obvious surprise of them both.

Tobirama balks. Truly has there ever been a kitsune so inept with its Inari-gifted body as him? It should be simple magic to keep his soul tails tucked away in their pocket dimension—barely more than a thought—but for the life of him he can’t seem to manage even that simple task with consistency.

They keep reaching out, grasping, searching for an anchor of their own accord.

Perhaps a chakric Gordian knot to bind them, trap them in a never-ending loop of—

He shudders violently at the smooth glide of feathers against his haori, brushing across his collar and proceeding to map a casual line of intimacy down between his shoulder blades. Izuna’s pinions come to rest where they can tease at the sway of his lower back. Even through the layers of silk there’s a static charge building like a lightning strike. Blasted tengu. It wasn’t  _ him _ returning the overture, it was his thrice damned tail.

Fortunately, before the caress of Izuna’s wing can find a permanent home in his soul, the brief touch retreats and the tengu pulls away from his side with an abrupt cry.

“Kagami! Don’t touch those things. There’s no telling where they’ve been!” Izuna looks back over his shoulder, frowning in disappointment, then hurries to intercept Kagami in picking up and carrying as many kodama as he can.

Unmoored, Tobirama rocks back and makes to get up and do what he does best—flee. The chick is safely with his minders, Izuna is no longer about to rampage in defense of his family. There’s no point in staying any longer no matter how pleasant it would be to watch the moment of triumph when the kodama make mushrooms sprout. He’s not a coward by any stretch of the imagination. He’s taken down yōkai far stronger than him during territory disputes through a potent mixture of intelligence, swiftness, and courage. Even so this is a battle he knows he’s ill-equipped to win.

Breathing hard, Tobirama digs his claws into the leaf litter, but he isn’t swift enough. Before his bottom can rise more than a hand span, Madara’s ridiculously firm grip descends on his shoulder and mercilessly pushes him right back down. The leaves and pine needles protest his abrupt plop with a dry crackle. 

“Sit,” Madara commands without raising his voice. “You’re flightier than a damn chickadee.”

“If you haven’t forgotten, there are peace talks to attend,” Tobirama snaps back icily, “so you’ll have to excuse me if we don’t all have time to casually laze about the mountain.”

Madara cants his head in a single twitch, the gesture so avian that Tobirama can’t help but liken it to an eagle catching movement. Regardless, the move is obviously well practiced and opens up the tengu’s face entirely. Such a breathtakingly handsome man he is.

“We’re not ‘casually lazing.’ We’re,” he pauses, looking to his boisterous family as they squawk and carry on. Amazing how the strong lines of his face soften for them. “We’re cementing political ties and creating alliances.”

Huffing, Tobirama drops his shoulder and jerks it from beneath Madara’s palm—that same palm he can still feel throbbing along the back of his neck. “You can play whatever semantic games you’d like, but I have a duty to perform.”

This time when he tries to rock up to his hind paws Madara doesn’t attempt to stop him. It’s almost odd not to have his actions aborted by a potent hand and an even more heady surge of chakra. The lack of resistance makes him overshoot and stumble back a step, uncharacteristically clumsy.

Madara simply watches him from his seat on the ground and raises a single judgmental eyebrow. “It’s hardly a matter of semantics when the heirs from two of the most powerful clans on the continent are soul-bonded to each other now isn’t it?” he drawls, plucking up an errant pine needle and placing the tip between his lips.

Inari curse them all, each and every tengu who has ever drawn breath and thought to navigate the skies if only to drop Tobirama’s nerves into the nettles like a damned shrike. How can they both be so calm in the face of Inari’s obvious mistake? Tengu and kitsune should never be allowed to mate. It’s unnatural—the kits would never garner respect and wind up living a half-life, hunted by the world.

Tobirama tells himself this, but the words ring hollow.

Kagami peeps happily in the near distance as he and the kodama lead Izuna on a merry chase. The tengu drags his feet and purposefully trips over fallen tree boughs even as he curses the winds, wings flapping and face flushed. His ceremonial garb is covered in dirt and sodden from what looks to have been a dunking in the river. There’s no possibility the children of his loins would ever be allowed to suffer if this is the care and regard he gives a chick that isn’t his blood. And Madara has shown himself equally as dedicated, if in a different, more subtle manner.

Inhaling deeply, Tobirama softens his knees and lowers himself back down to the ground where the leaf litter still carries his body heat. 

“How did you know?”

At that, Madara lets out a bark of laughter. He glances down pointedly to where Tobirama’s soul tail is doing its best to wrap around his waist and slip between the panels of his kosode. “There were clues,” he says, not bothering to hide his satisfaction at Tobirama’s mortified blush.

Fast as a viper, Tobirama whips his misbehaving appendage away, shoves it viciously under his thigh, and buries his face in his hands. This ridiculous body of his simply doesn’t understand that they  _ can’t _ have the gift that is being so temptingly displayed. Broad shoulders tapering down to a thick waist and strong hips—absolutely none of that muscle obscured by the multitudinous layers of silk Madara wears. It’s not that Tobirama is experienced enough to even know whether it’s the aesthetic he prefers or if it’s simply these two tengu who are so appealing.

“You would do well to forget those clues,” he growls from the safety of his palms.

“And why would I do that?” Madara asks, the levity bleeding from his voice with each word he cuts his teeth on.

The power of that voice is embarrassing in a number of ways that Tobirama flat out refuses to consider. He drags his hands down his face to settle on his lap once more, fisting his claws in his haori and rucking it up in the process.

“For a multitude of reasons, the foremost being that your brother does not share your interest in pursuing a bond.” He receives an odd look that motivates him to continue with a touch more care. “As we were returning to my shrine, my haori had risen up and I was informed of the misstep in allowing my tails tp show.”

“Tobirama, he was staring at your ass,” Madara says flatly.

“He was n—” Tobirama tries to argue, only to be cut off with a casual pat on his thigh.

“Yes. He was. I know my mate and you were being shamelessly ogled. If Izuna had any nefarious plans in the works like breaking a soul-bond, Indra forbid, you wouldn’t know until it was too late. It’s probably hard to believe, but my otouto isn’t actually an idiot. Don’t get me wrong, he has his moments and he seems to lose his head around you, but don’t underestimate him.”

More telling than anything else, Tobirama doesn’t bat Madara’s wrist away from his leg. Was he truly misconstruing Izuna’s actions so grievously? He was so sure that it was a denial not a...well, a sexual advance apparently. With this new lense he can see how the fleeting touches, the casual sharing of space, and the hawk-eyed intensity could be interpreted as signs of favor as opposed to reminders to be circumspect. His spine bows under the weight of knowing that the only thing keeping him from accepting this Inari-blessed union is him. 

“We both want this, and we’re both more than willing to do anything within our combined power to earn your favor.”

Another bolt to the chest. It’s so hard to pull in air. “I’ll consider it,” he says, too weak to meet Madara’s gaze.

“That’s all we ask.”

Gathered in a heaping pile of white bodies, kodama tumble over each other in an effort to dig around the roots of a nearby pine tree. The tips of black wings poke out from the top of their huddle, much to Izuna’s horror. He stomps in circles, pulling at his dripping pony tail and cursing prolifically enough for the leaves above him to curl, the very picture of a put-upon marm. Ignorant to his plight, Kagami squirms his way out of the press of chattering heads in order to strike a pose—wings spread, legs braced wide, and one arm upraised in triumph. 

“I found a mushroom!” he screams, flapping so hard he manages his first flight.


	12. Tajima's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to stop forgetting to update this thing. XD

Senju Hashirama is nothing like the pellet-guzzling upstart of a fox his father was at this age, but neither is he the congenial tree-fucker he tries so hard to project. It’s cute, though, so Tajima lets him spin his latticework of machinations throughout the morning and enjoys plucking at inconsistencies just to feel the kit squirm. 

Such a droll lie—a recent discovery of the wonders of the world, a life spent torn between tending to both the mountain and brother he loves, and a deeply rooted drive to be at one with his element. Also an exceedingly stupid one for all that it pulls on the heartstrings.

Handsome fool.

As if Tajima wouldn’t recognize the uniquely verdant chakra signature laced throughout the missives they’ve been trading in an attempt to hash out this long overdue accord. Butsuma may be the Senju’s figurehead, but Tajima hasn’t handled a single communication in the past fifty years that wasn’t steeped in mokuton.

Dryads are such promiscuous little shits, leaving their spores where any might pick them up. Still, at least this half-breed sapling is a far cry more benevolent than some he’s come across, and a softer touch, too.

Now, his own sons are a different story altogether. Vexatious things. Tajima knows they’re up to something—they generally always are—the only question is what particular flavor of inane that ‘something’ is this time around and how he’s going to lovingly shake it out of them.

Kagami’s sudden arrival would have been a shock of course, as Hikaku had explained, though Madara is well-versed in handling his brother’s outbursts. There was no reason to essentially abduct the second heir of the Senju. Fine chakra coils on that one, but even Izuna knows not to press his suit when the balance between their clans is already so tenuous.

He hopes. Strike that. They’re all doomed.

Wings twitching, Tajima flexes his perfectly preened feathers to angle out then settle once again, slick and frictionless. 

“Would you like me to go retrieve them, Tajima-sama?” Hikaku asks, because for all the hell Tajima puts him through on a regular basis, he still insists on being a good, level-headed tengu and an even better soldier.

“No, that’s fine. They’ll meander back whenever they’re ready to,” Tajima replies airily, relinquishing his hold of Hashirama’s bicep to glide forward a step and find a familiar home in the crook of Hikaku’s elbow. While the rest of their retinue wears silk, there’s only the thick, durable sensation of waxed linen beneath Tajima’s fingers and the jangle of a flight harness. As pleasant as Hashirama’s spring-soft scent is—like the warmth of a sunbeam on jasmine flower—there will never be anything more comforting than the mild embrace of flight oil and ozone.

Hikaku flexes imperceptibly and a broad, callused hand envelopes the back of Tajima’s.

“You know best.” There’s no hesitation in his voice, not even a slight note of disbelief.

For that, Tajima allows his favorite front-line warrior a smile.

“I do, don’t I? Perhaps I should put in my bid to lock talons next we battle for clan head rights. Surely this clan could use such an omniscient force as myself leading the flock,” he says, tapping his lips thoughtfully. He doesn’t even need to sweep out his chakra to note Hashirama’s confusion. 

“I doubt you’d have the constitution for leading,” Hikaku retorts in that same easy, level tone.

And there’s the sharp wit Tajima was waiting for—like a portable piece of home. He lets out a piercing chirp and lets the tail end of the melody culminate in a saucy twitter. As his abrupt bird song peters out, he catches the telltale swish of clothing in the background and delicate claw-clicks as the kitsune elders shift their weight. The one twelve paces back and to the left, reeking of honeyed wine, has a lame hind paw judging by the tightness of his breathing.

Tajima catalogues it and shoulders Hikaku firmly enough to rock his solid frame.

“No respect, this one,” he tosses out in Hashirama’s direction, bemoaning his plight. “Perhaps I should have kept to your much more palatable company.”

Hashirama grins, warm and smooth like the west wind. “Well, since the elders are still consecrating my otouto’s shrine, I can show you the dens we’ve set up? They’re pretty neat. I don’t really get the appeal of sleeping above ground, but to each their own I guess, and the kodama really seem to like them.”

To each their own, indeed.

The lack of formality is refreshing. Tajima breaths deep of this easy atmosphere, holds it to savor in his lungs, and exhales long and slow. Pinpricks of light flash along the edges of his senses, sparks chasing after each other like fireflies. As they pass, dust motes of ambient chakra are swept up from along the stone floor of the temple, the abundant leaf litter, and the Yōkai bones deep below to bob frenetically in their wake. His breath cuts off, but the faint zephyr continues to stir the air until the entire scene glows in an image more defined than any he’s captured by sight.

A long series of chabudai have been laid out in the relatively intimate courtyard of Tobirama’s inner shrine. The variegated textures of tatami mats interrupt smooth flagstones. Near the massive gate and its stone fox statues sits the offering crate and its payload of goods, all resonating with the unique black-fire touch of his sons. Gathered within the inner shrine itself—where he won’t deign to go—half a dozen elderly zenko take turns looking into a pool of water that is not water and chanting prayers in a language he doesn’t know.

Tajima’s chakric sight can ascertain no more about it, and truly it’s not as if Inari can touch him even if they were up to something nefarious. He’s held that fetid god’s gift in his womb. It would be sacrilegious to desecrate a temple, flesh or stone.

And in the middle of it all, Senju Butsuma. 

The standoffish fox acts as if Tajima deflowered him last they met despite at least one son’s worth of proof to the contrary. A hundred years and the egotistical bastard still won’t meet his eyes. Tajima may be blind, but respect is respect.

He finally breathes in once more. “That sounds absolutely delightful. Please, sweep me away on another whirlwind journey before your clan head glares a hole through us and my untimely demise nullifies the accord before it can even begin,” he replies with faux mirth, reaching out and waving his arm back and forth until it’s caught up by Hashirama’s hand, smooth as a geisha’s and completely devoid of the trappings of war.

Dangerous, this one.

Tajima can feel the way Hashirama looks over his shoulder to verify that yes, Butsuma is still scrutinizing them and spreads his wings wide when the kit looks away—pinions stretching towards the horizon in overt threat. For tengu, it’s a very clear, very specific challenge. For kitsune, it’s just another of their inexplicable habits.

Hikaku cheeps under his breath to chastise him, not that it helps. It never does, poor thing. Tajima only lowers his wings once the point has been made for any of his people watching, folding his massive appendages back and tucking them tightly to appear a harmless chickadee once more.

“All an inter-species miscommunication in body language, I’m sure,” he continues when a note of tension begins to thrum along Hashirama’s forearm. A forced laugh and they’re all congenial once more. “Come along, Sprout.”

Hikaku’s clacking talons falter. “Sprout?” he echoes incredulously, flexing his bicep like a vice around Tajima’s hand. 

“I enjoy endearments and think it has a certain charm,” Tajima defends, sidling up to Hashirama’s side—pressed up close enough to all but taste the sun-baked skin of his shoulder—and dragging Hikaku equally as near on his other side. It’s surprisingly delightful to be bracketed by two such tall yokai. Something to consider after this evening’s festivities, perhaps. 

Hikaku’s wing instinctively unfolds to hover half-curled over his own. “ _ Sprout _ .”

Scoffing, Tajima purposefully stomps on his talon. “Spare me your commentary and say you agree with my choice like a good soldier.”

“I agree that you’re terrible at coming up with names.”

His ruse is as effective as any other in drawing Hashirama’s attention away from Butsuma’s violently roiling chakra and setting them in motion. Apparently there is at least one kitsune well-versed in tengu body language. A minor misstep, but not one he regrets in the least. 

“I like it,” Hashirama announces cheerfully, whittling away at Hikaku’s already thinning feathers. “It’s really cute!” Another of his rich, flowing laughs and Izuna’s second in command is all but clipped. 

Tajima warbles, successfully couching his amusement in a light and pointless discussion of which diminutives are and aren’t appropriate for the direct heir of a clan as vaunted as the zenko. Their easy camaraderie marks the cresting of the sun in the sky and by the time the stone below gives way to leaves, then grass, Tajima has successfully secured another ally. 

  
  
***

Tajima closes his eyes and takes in the gloriously detailed clearing with its prolific berth of chakra and the kitsune magic that thrums through it all. He doesn’t even have to expend energy to envision the full breadth of the image.

And what an image it is.

The mokuton aeries are actually quite beautiful—vast swaths of wood curling up in a latticework of tree trunk moors with each masterfully wrought trellis layered in night-blooming jasmine. Come evening, the glade with be an aromatic paradise, combining the scents of old and new, home and future family.

Upon each artful stalk rests an eerily accurate imitation of their aeries, complete with suspension bridges and, oddly enough, the ridiculously large, two-toned expansion Izuna insisted be added to the home his sons share. Nigh impossible intelligence gathering for a terrestrial creature. Too, building these half-dozen treetop lodgings would have been a truly monumental undertaking even for someone with sap in their veins and a mokuton heart. Tajima can’t wait to see what this Senju sapling will be capable of once he’s grown into his power fully. Under a joint banner and all in the name of peace, of course.

Though, Tajima would likely have an even better appreciation of the Senju heir and his painstakingly crafted architecture if not for the distraction of a dive-bombing chick coming in at mach speed, gleefully shrieking like a kettle.

Never a dull moment and rarely a day spent without some chick-brained scheme or another.

Letting loose his own piercing hawk’s cry in challenge, Tajima claws his fingers into Hikaku and Hashirama’s arms to wrench them both back behind him, stumbling over the grass in surprise. Despite their mutual cries of distress, Hikaku thrives best with a little rough handling and Hashirama will surely live, walking bole of ironwood that he is. It would be a shame for two such handsome faces to take the brunt of his wings’ backlash by being overly kind.

Free of impediments, Tajima digs his talons deep into the rich soil and softens his knees in preparation of a truly brutal counterstrike. Kagami’s mirth hasn’t let up, has only doubled as he and Izuna close in. With as swiftly as his son is hurtling in under the weight of his chick-laden payload, he doesn’t even need to stir up ambient chakra to note their position, can hear the steady slice of feathers through air seconds before impact.

Three seconds. Two. One.

For all his impulsivity, Izuna isn’t a fool and has never once taken a chance with a chick’s wellbeing, so it’s with deep satisfaction that Tajima listens for the straining grunt as his son predictably slams his wings forward at the last second. His wings belt them all with downdraft so powerful Tajima would be felled if he wasn’t already braced for it it. It’s exactly the opportunity he was waiting for.

He lashes out, quick as an adder’s strike and snatches Kagami by the front of his kimono. The chick squeals with glee as he’s forcibly torn from Izuna’s arms. Taking advantage of the moment, Tajima kicks straight up, catches his talons on Izuna’s obi, and uses Izuna’s forward momentum to propel himself into a backflip. It’s second nature to snap his wings out horizontally and spin along their axis like a tumbler pigeon, the comfortable warmth of a chick crushed tightly against his chest.

As soon as his hair brushes the turf, he coils his muscular thighs and kicks off of Izuna’s stomach full force, rebounding to almost instantly complete the flip. The landing is harder on his knees than it would have been five-hundred years ago, but he has an armful of tweeting chick, a kodama burrowing down the front of his kosode, and victory sweet on his tongue to make up for the slight ache.

Another challenge successfully navigated. Another chance to absolutely  _ crush _ his son’s bloated ego. For all that he’s actually one of the single most effective warriors Tajima has ever had the honor to witness, Izuna requires a jess to keep him tethered half the time. 

Takes after his father, that one.

“You’ll have to do better than that, chick,” he caws over his shoulder, turning to nuzzle a patch of dirt from Kagami’s cheek.

Behind them Tajima can almost feel how hard Hikaku is thrumming with the pent up need to beat his head against a tree, wings fanning and folding repeatedly. A string of low, muttered apologies serves as a continuous buzz, though Hashirama seems anything but offended by being the one to soften Izuna’s fateful plummet. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that the heir’s prodigious chest serves as an effective muzzle for Izuna’s acerbic mouth. Not an unenviable position.

A consolation prize for Izuna’s daring.

Tajima grins, having missed the first half of Kagami’s rapid-fire report. “And they’re really cool! They helped me get you a present, Tajima Heika! You’re really gonna like it! ” Kagami peeps, squirming and shifting so violently in his excitement that even the kodama pops its head above Tajima’s collar to reach out and latch onto the chick’s clothing with its tiny, featureless hand. “But you can’t have my friend. Tobi-sensei said I could keep them. I just have to make sure it gives Izuna lots of attention. And sunlight. Oh, and give it a good name! Like ‘Bobble-head’!”

Indra preserve them, there’s a tree spirit rooting in his silks, mud and dirt everywhere, and he wouldn’t exchange even a moment of this for all the ice-laden summits in the world. His family is a perfect disaster, all sky-scented and borne from the clouds like the gift of rain. And equally as bull-headed as a stormfront. Why would he ever assume that care would be given to the state of their formal dress here on the eve of the peace accords?

Tajima cants his head down to nuzzle the little spirit as well.

“That’s a fantastic name, chick. And I’m certain I’ll love your gift,” he croons gently, happy to note Madara’s near silent landing at his side. Clever tengu. Sometimes he despairs at how well Izuna has taken after him in temperament, but then he recalls how Madara has inherited enough competency and brooding instinct to look after them both. Such a lovely family he has.

“I did warn him not to do it,” Madara reports dutifully. There’s the distinct sound of silk sliding against silk and a dual patter in the grass as if from another body being set down. Tajima exhales quickly to whip up a windstorm of chakra, talons imperceptibly shifting to widen his stance. It’s not common for him to be taken unawares, yet there it is, another kitsune standing well within striking distance as still and silent as a corpse.

Indra’s balls.

He had thought that plume of black flame to be his son’s until it bifurcated.

Tossing his head to sweep his hair from his face and dispel some of the unease, Tajima shifts Kagami to settle on his hip. “Since when has anything short of crashing into a cliff deterred your brother from his asinine games?” he asks, affecting equal parts amusement and despondency.

“I’m fairly certain you were the one to come up with this one, Tousan,” Madara retorts.

And perhaps he was—one of the thousand vectors of low grade psychological torture he’s inflicted on his lovely little chicks since their hatching. It’s payback for having made him so round for nearly a year straight.

Tajima sniffs and pats Kagami’s curls as the chick takes in a noisy breath to lend support to Madara’s claim. He finds that a faceful of silk and a solid shoulder does wonders to quiet opinionated chicks. A sweet trill and it even looks like an affectionate embrace.

“Nonsense. You’ll find that as clan head I’m above such banalities. Senju Tobirama, I do hope my sons haven’t inconvenienced you too terribly.” He reaches out a hand, expecting it to be taken up, but after an awkward length of time spent hovering, it’s the crook of Madara’s fever-hot arm that his palm rests against.

Tajima isn’t easily offended, but tossing a fully-grown missile of fluff and spite back at Hashirama to intercept was less of a political faux pas than to refuse the hand of the highest ranked tengu on the continent. Odd.

“They were no inconvenience,” Tobirama replies in a voice far deeper than Tajima would have expected.

No formal introduction, not a peep out of him when they first met and now nothing more than a comment on the pleasure of his sons’ company. What in Indra’s red skies is this rude little bag of fur and bones on about? It’s almost as if he was…raised alone on a mountain.

Tajima smiles broadly to cover the swelling darkness in his chest.

Oh, he’s going to slit Butsuma from pelvis to throat for this atrocity. 

“Ah, I’m glad to hear it,” he says diplomatically, hitching Kagami further up towards his waist and leaning into Madara’s solid presence. “Your brother was just showing me the lovely accommodations you’ve set up for me and mine, though it would appear he’s currently preoccupied.”

A shriek is followed immediately by Hashirama’s delicious laugh and the telltale whump of Hikaku doing what he does best—peacekeeping.

“Perhaps you could show us in his stead?”

Tobirama is a peculiar thing—skin barely containing the flame that laps at the air from his chakric seams, so much like his sons’, and sitting deep in a pocket of power despite his reticence. Even so, it’s obvious that for all he’s shit at diplomacy, the kit has a head on his shoulders, can pick up on what is and isn’t a question no matter how it’s phrased.

“Yes, of course, Uchiha-sama,” Tobirama intones, finally recalling something of the lessons Hashirama must have imparted. There’s even a stilted bow, though his tail lashes like a feral tiger. How quaint. 

“And on the way you can eat my present! Tobi-sensei helped because I told him you like mushrooms sooooo much,” Kagami chirps, pawing at his kimono and nearly upending himself from Tajima’s arm in an attempt to root through his pockets.

Quite a lot to unpack there. This is the second time Kagami has called the taciturn kitsune whelp ‘sensei’ and most importantly, since when has Tajima ever favored mushrooms? They’re foul, musty things best left to rot in a dung heap. It took a fortnight to clear his memory of them the first and last time Madara thought to commit the heinous crime of topping their perfectly braised trout with shitake. 

Indra’s curse be upon every fungal spore that thinks to masquerade as an edible.

With a rolling trill, Kagami proudly holds aloft a bulbous lump of something with a sickly chakric pallor to it that looks like death and smells like spilt bowels. Even the damned kodama seems inordinately pleased by it.

“It’s matsutake!”

“Ah,” Tajima says, drawing out the sound, “my favorite. However did you know?”

“You told me, silly. And ‘Zuna makes sure to always remind me just in case,” Kagami announces, furrowing his little face in an eerily accurate approximation of Izuna’s scowl. 

Madara, good, loyal chick that he typically is, has the audacity to shake with repressed laughter. A brief roll of thunder even escapes his chest where Tajima’s knuckles rest against it. He can hear the change in space as wings spread over them and feel the coolness of their shadow against his neck. Tobirama continues to steadily patter towards the temporary aeries, completely ignorant to the filicide that’s going to come following Madara’s soul-rending display of  _ victory _ .

Kagami had once asked to be given leniency in his little training game—stealing ranked military bands from the ankles of Tajima and his forces. Let him win just once, he had whined. And, being the benevolent clan head that he is, Tajima had agreed only in the event that the chick find the exceedingly rare matsutake mushroom because he ‘enjoyed the spicy flavor so very much.’ 

“I tell you what. Keep it safe for me and I’ll savor it fully with my sake this evening.” 

No stretch of beauty, no clack of talons along gently winding ramps can still the war gongs resounding in Tajima’s heart.

He has only himself to blame for this, and frankly, it was a well-played rout. Though, Madara and Izuna will rue their complicity in this scheme when he regurgitates it all in their nest tonight. A pleasure to be had later. For now, Tajima looks to the sliding door patterned by thatch and wonders at what’s inside. 


	13. Tajima's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered to update!!!!

Tajima tilts his head in consideration of the structures before him. 

“Though I lent my assistance in visually mapping these structures, I’m unfamiliar with which unit belongs to whom,” Tobirama admits freely, as if he hadn’t just casually stated that the Senju managed covert operations along several miles of sheer cliff face to gather intelligence without being remarked by tengu patrols.

He drags his fingers along the newly hewn wood and pulls up a plume of bamboo scent in his wake.

“I imagine as the largest, this is yours, Uchiha-sama?”

The words are objectively benign, but there’s something in his manner that just screams ‘prick’. Tajima plasters on his most beneficent smile and cocks his head the other way. “Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t. What do you think, Tobirama?”

“Tousan, don’t,” Madara warns, as if anything he says will make Tajima release a tantalizing target once it’s held fast in his talons. Let Tobirama squirm. Heir or no, there will be no delaying the kill no matter how viciously he struggles. Though, the kit doesn’t appear to be ruffled by his admission of complicity in what is effectively a violation of the terms of their ceasefire. His black-fire chakra stays as calm and contained as banked coals. 

“Me? I believe that you appreciate appearances and showboating more than your sons who pride functionality above aesthetic,” Tobirama states smoothly, crossing his arms and settling his weight evenly on both paws, “therefore I would deduce that this aerie belongs to Madara and Izuna, and the truly atrocious structure with the carvings of crows in flight on the gables is yours. Are my  _ thoughts _ satisfactory, Tajima-sama?”

There’s a long moment of silence. The air hangs still, unmoved by breath, and even Kagami and his befriended kodama flatten themselves against his chest.

“You’re a daring little shit,” Tajima concludes, his fake smile growing into something a little more honest. Madara tenses against him, ready to intercede on a moment’s notice, but there’s no need—Tajima has never been so quickly won over by a creature in his life. “Alright, I’ll admit you’re correct. The ‘atrocious structure’ is mine. Now, I’d like to know how you came by that knowledge.”

“Deductive reasoning,” Tobirama drawls, twitching his tail.

It’s official, Tajima needs to find some way to adopt this ball of fur and spite. The sudden need resonates on a soul-deep level. He smoothly slides free of Madara’s elbow and takes two measured steps to close the gap between him and his new son. Tobirama’s clothing is a delicious fall of material, the finest he’s felt since Madara spent a ludicrous amount of effort in begging Izuna’s spider silk from the Tsuchigumo Clan.

“Don’t nip at me until you’ve grown some teeth, kit,” he says, voice bright and entirely affable. “I’ll ask one more time, but phrase it in a way you’ll understand: When did your dainty zenko paws touch down on my territory and what document did you reference that stated you could claim that right without reigniting the war?”

At that, Tobirama’s arms fall loose at his sides, all attitude seeming to melt away along with his confidence. There’s no way he understands the meaning inherent in the way Tajima’s wings are half-unfurled and prepared to rise up in force, but he’s certainly well-versed in reading tone, knows the damage Tajima’s talons could do poised over his heart as they are.

To his credit, he stays rooted to the spot instead of retreating.

“I was not implying,” Tobirama begins, hesitating and choosing to change tack mid-sentence, “Uzumaki Mito is a phoenix and her most recent reincarnation has had the abysmally poor fortune of being chosen as my Anija’s soulmate. Her kind are able to channel the consciousness of another in flight. My eidetic memory served her to direct Hashirama’s hand in erecting the aeries, that’s all. She simply flew a single pass in an effort to make your retinue comfortable during their stay. There was no intentional violation of the treaty.” 

An interesting addition to the Senju, certainly, and an advantageous ally at that, though, they must not have been mated long considering Tobirama’s flawed, incomplete knowledge. Phoenixes are powerful beyond measure, but they have limitations in how they are able to channel that power. Partnering consciences can only be done with similar bloodlines—tengu, gumyōchō, basan—not upstart kitsune like this whelp, even if Tobirama is a zenko. 

“Cute oversimplification, but that’s not quite right about the fire folk,” Tajima gleefully points out. 

Tobirama’s chest flexes under his hand as he takes in a sharp breath. “Excuse me? I’m well aware of what my sister-in-law is capable of,” he pronounces, voice dropping into a range that Tajima can  _ feel _ .

“And I’m equally well-versed in avian e _ verything _ .”

Tobirama sputters, so obviously torn between indignation and a healthy smattering of fear. “You are not!”

Indra’s grace, Tajima wants to laugh so hard, and he would if it wouldn’t send Tobirama into paroxysms. Warm sun on his wings, the familiar paneling of aerie underfoot, and the flaring chakra of his most beloved people all present at the same time and within easy reach—this has turned into an exceptionally fortuitous day.

Grinning so wide his lips curl away from his teeth, Tajima anchors his fist in the front panel of Tobirama’s garment and goes up on his talon-tips to plant a playful kiss on his forehead. “I adore this fox!” he crows, taking advantage of Tobirama’s surprise to shove Kagami onto his hip. “Here, hold the chick.”

Without pausing to make sure the transfer went smoothly, he folds his wings against his back with a loud slap and spins to hop into Madara’s space. Fortunately, this chick is slightly shorter than his recently acquired kit. Not by much, but enough not to have to strain. He takes Madara’s broad jaw between his palms and looks up to where he suspects eyes would be, earnestness in the softness of his brow.

“Would you and your brother have it in your hearts to take another mate?” he asks gravely, “I’ll even build the expansion with my own hands as a dowry. I want this ridiculous creature as my third son, Madara.”

A choked gasp behind him, an aggrieved sigh towards his front—truly, this is living.

“Tousan, that’s not my decision to make,” Madara states with a seriousness the situation doesn’t precisely warrant. He’s been growing more grounded as the years roll on, but it’s not as if he hasn’t been teased for the nigh unbreakable loyalty of his bond to Izuna before. Such monogamy is rare among their kind even if there is a committed soulbond. Unless perhaps there’s something already there to have him sucking air through gritted teeth. 

It’s a wound Tajima will have to pry open later. 

“Ah, I’m so glad you agree to the union,” he steamrolls, letting it be for the time being in favor of patting his son’s cheeks like the kind, doting father he is. 

It earns him a reproachful eagle’s cry, more animal than tengu. “Tajima!”

And that’s certainly a volume Tajima has never heard Madara reach. After his curiosity is sated regarding uncovering the trappings inside of these phoenix-studied nests, he’s going to peck at that crack in Madara’s facade  _ mercilessly _ . 

“What did Tousan do now?” Izuna calls out, swooping in from above, Hashirama and Hikaku conspicuously absent.

Not willing to wait and hear his most recent grievances aired, Tajima sweeps back to reach around Tobirama and slide open the door to the simulacra of his sons’ nest. The casters glide far more freely than those installed in the real aerie and there’s none of the rattling that comes with the abrupt change in air pressure. All things considered, it’s an improvement. Not that he would ever voice such a thing aloud.

“Ah, excuse me, kit,” he graciously offers Tobirama in place of shouldering by as he would have done to any other grown member of his flock. Still, he wouldn’t be family without at least a gentle hip-check. 

Tobirama stumbles sideways as Kagami cheeps and sings in the sweet little bursts of birdsong Madara taught him. Each tiny warble is another anchor sunk into his heart, and the kitsune’s as well if his subconscious snuffling is anything to go by. It sounds odd coming from a fox other than Butsuma, but heartening all the same.

As all good things, the fond moment is soon ruined by Izuna’s raucous voice as it follows him into the large central space with its high, vaulted ceiling and extended floor-plan. The room sounds so much larger without the wall hangings or mounds of pillows and linens to absorb the sound. Tajima lets his pinions hang low to drag along the floor as he makes a circuit, but all he can sense is a single, rectangular futon.

Before he can give voice to his observations, Izuna—his unfortunate clone—comes bursting into the room in a clatter of talons and far too much unmitigated energy.

“Tousan, you’re ruining everything!” he shrieks, voice so shrill it makes Tajima wince.

Where the chick learned how to reach that sheer, unenviable range will forever remain a mystery—sounds like a damned vixen at the height of mating season.

“I know for a fact we’ve discussed what is and isn’t acceptable volume in enclosed spaces,” Tajima rebukes him to absolutely no effect.

“I don’t care,” Izuna continues to screech, “why do you have to display your tail feathers all the time? Madara and I were doing just fine before you decided to —”

Before Tajima is able to be regaled with what atrocity he’s committed this time around, Madara glides in on silent feet and firmly claps a hand over Izuna’s mouth from behind. One massive wing folds around them—a frustrating habit they picked up when they were still half-down balls of fluff and figured out that making an interstitial pocket with their wings would hide their mischief and offer a degree of privacy. With the odd way their feathers deflect chakra, it’s surprisingly effective against Tajima.

The paper-thin feathers lining the back of Tajima’s neck rise and settle at being denied a prompt answer. Just outside of the doorway he can hear Kagami murmuring indistinctly to Tobirama and the light swish and clack of chick-talons on wood. 

An audience, then.

“Decided to what? Please, don’t be shy with your accusations on my account,” he invites, loosely rolling his hand at the wrist. Unfortunately, his sons don’t take the bait, simply finish their hushed conversation and step apart. Madara reclaims his wing and Izuna appears significantly calmer, or at least the fire in his chakra isn’t licking up so high it endangers the thatch roof any longer. Such glorious, hot-blooded tengu.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Madara states, flicking his pinions to forestall any further questions.

Interesting to see that flare of pique directed at him. Madara is typically so respectful. “Of course. Apologies for however I have wronged my dearest and most beloved. Please, allow me to make up for my grievous misstep,” Tajima drawls, rolling his eyes as he lifts one arm and waits. Predictably, Izuna is the first to take up the offer, all lithe strength firmly and immediately latched to his side. The chick should have been born a limpet for all of the clinging he does.

And, just as a limpet, he’s apparently brought half the sea along with him.

“Indra’s balls, why are you wet?” Tajima squawks, prying at the vice grip of Izuna’s talons to free himself.

Laughing, Izuna relents and hops back a pace. “What? Didn’t  _ see _ that coming?” He continues to titter and revel in his own cleverness until he runs out of breath for it. Sucking in a great gale, he manages to sober himself, voice still sly and slick with the glory of his small triumph. “That’s what you get for,” he hesitates, “doing that thing we’ll discuss later.”

First Kagami’s putrid mushroom, now this? Whatever has Tajima done to deserve such hellacious recompense? Hooting dolefully, he shoots forward and snatches Izuna by the chin and the base of his ponytail, pulling him in for a kiss to the cheek, then shoves his unruly chick back out through the doorway.

“I love you too. Now, go sunbake yourself dry, brat,” he caws, “and take Kagami and your new brother with you.”

Again, there’s that punched-out exhalation like Tobirama has been dealt a blow. It’s not entirely a joke, Tajima fully intends on taking the wayward fox under his wing, but that violent of a reaction to something as benign as an adoptive claim isn’t normal. Tengu adopt each other’s families regularly—the more creatures to love and be loved by, the better. Kagami’s parents only complain because Izuna has trained their chick to tell them that he prefers Madara’s nest when they ask for him to come home and Izuna is away.

Taking Tobirama into their flock should come as no surprise in light of Butsuma’s absenteeism. Dens are such sad, lonely things, particularly with only insects for company. 

Flexing his fingers, Tajima waits until a cool, wafting shadow interrupts the shaft of warmth stemming from the open doorway, then passes. He listens for the receding patter of Tobirama’s claws and Kagami’s talons as the chick cheeps and furiously motors his legs like a plover to keep up. He can feel Madara’s presence as a wall interrupting the flow of sound next to him.

“It’s ‘later’,” Tajima observes.

“You didn’t have to run them off,” Madara answers, plucking at what is surely a dark patch on his silks from Izuna’s idiocy. “A little patience wouldn’t have killed you, Tousan.”

“I’ve never developed a palate for patience and you well know it. Now, you’ll assuage my curiosity while we build a proper nest instead of whatever the hell this oversized floor mop is.”

The futon is miserably thin under his foot and stuffed with moss of all things. Moisture seeps through the cotton and into the scales of Tajima’s toes when he presses down and holds it. Considering the intense study and elegance that went into the architectural aspects of this faux aerie, the sad slip of bedding seems worse by comparison. Kitsune magic sparkles along its edges, accompanied by the bright, fresh scent of the forest. Kodama obviously helped in the crafting, but it was Senju Tobirama who guided their hands.

Tajima’s heart aches, a tangible pain in his chest.

“There’s not much to explain and I’m sure you already interrogated Hashirama for the bulk of it,” Madara begins, pushing up his sleeves to flash through a complex series of hand seals. Each sweep of his fingers pulls forth a steady burst of chakra, calling from wells far greater than Tajima has observed in any other tengu, and most other Yōkai for that matter. Blue and black skeins of power shadow Madara’s movements and glow so bright it’s almost as if Tajima can see again.

The children of his body are a gift of dual divinity and every chance he has to watch them grow would bring tears if his eyes hadn’t been seared through centuries ago. As it stands, his throat still tightens.

Madara casually opens a tear in space and removes a veritable mountain of bedding and linens as if it’s normal—normal to bend the laws of nature, normal to walk around with that much nesting material on hand.

Brooding hen.

“You’re aware Tobirama was raised by his brother, yes?” Madara asks, systematically sifting through a thigh-high mountain of pillows to sort them by size.

With absolutely none of his son’s deference, Tajima digs down to the bottom and pulls out a plush, rolled-up futon half the length of the room. “I’m aware I’m going to rip Butsuma’s innards out and devour them in the most peaceable way I can, yes.”

Madara snorts and moves on to measure the length and heft of what must be a dozen blankets, folding them and organizing them by thickness. “I’m sure that’ll go over well,” he rumbles, letting his words rise into a teasing lilt. “He’s,” an explosive sigh, “touch-starved. Has no idea how to accept kindness or casual anything. When I was calming Izuna down earlier, he pulled Tobirama into our huddle and I swear I saw his soul leave his body.”

“From my experience, Hashirama is perfectly comfortable with physical affection. Why would a kit he raised be so aversive?” Tajima asks, suspecting the accuracy of his conclusions already, but wanting to hear it confirmed.

“Complete seclusion. Forest spirits for company. Six months out of the year spent alone. Take your pick. In any event, he had a less than stellar childhood, has no idea of how to socially interact outside of snark and evasion, and I think he may combust before he figures out what the hell to do with the possibility of being loved.” Madara swiftly steps to the side and lifts a corner of the futon to help slide it into place. “The poor bastard tried to hide his soulmarks of all things.”

That surprises a bark of laughter from Tajima. “And what precisely did he hope to accomplish by that?”

Madara jerks the futon over another meter and drops to his knees to smooth out each wrinkle to his exacting standards. For a time the only sound between them is the whisper of Madara’s calluses. 

“I’m going to say something now and you’re not going to do a single thing about it,” he finally deigns to answer. 

“Oh, come now, I’m not going to provide a blanket agreement for any—”

“Tajima, I’m serious. I won’t accept anything less than your word.” Another sweeping pass and Madara grunts approval, whipping back up to his talons with a single flap that sets the door to rattling on its casters. 

Tajima pats his bangs back into place. 

“So serious you’re using my name, again? Very well. You have my solemn vow that I will do absolutely nothing with the information provided, may the shinigami take me if I break my word. Would you like a blood pact as well?”

Ignoring the sarcastic offer, Madara moves on to positioning the largest of the pillows in a wall around the perimeter of the futon, two deep and so plush they could house an entire kodama army in the spaces between them. “Izuna woke up this morning with marks on his wings similar to yours. Slightly different pattern. I have them too, though I’m sure that won’t come as a surprise.”

Tajima shakes his head and bends down to replace a pillow he accidentally swept over with his wingtip. “I had assumed they would come.”

It would be impossible for the kami to deny the connection his sons share. Their mountain range would crumble and its bones weather away before either agreed to leave the other for any sustained stretch of time. Izuna—sweet, overzealous mate that he is—was probably mentally cataloging all of the ways in which he could shear the soul-bond in twain if it didn’t include his brother. In both war and love Izuna has a penchant for ruthless self-sacrifice. 

It’s another trait they share.

“Tobirama has those marks on his soul tails, too.”

Tajima stills, a sheet slipping through lax fingers.

Madara deftly catches it before it pools onto the floor and whips it over top of his artfully arranged nest like a shroud. A pocket of trapped air allows it to float as it delicately settles into the shape of a sloped, ergonomically sound bowl. “If we can convince him to let us initiate a courtship, you’ll have your third son. What I need is for you not to push. I know you love us and please know that I will always honor you, but the poor bastard thinks soul-bonds are something you can just choose to deny. He doesn’t know…anything, really.”

“I—” Tajima swallows several times to clear the thickness in his throat—to fight the burning in his useless eyes. “You have my word,” he reiterates, “and my assistance in  _ any _ way you need.” Centuries of too-hard landings and terrestrial acrobatics have nothing to do with how stiffly he moves as he closes the distance between them, tears the blanket from Madara’s hands, and envelops him in a crushing hug.

The kodama in his kosode fades out of existence under the pressure, chittering excitedly as it goes. 

“Anything,” Tajima repeats, digging his talons in to anchor his chick and never let him go. He begins to shake, wings fluttering so powerfully Madara has to arc his own over to cup them and gentle their flapping. His unique, Indra-kissed offspring have tried everything under the moon’s eye to carry a clutch of their own. Now, knowing intimately how blessed kitsune are with the grace of easy propagation, it’s a very real possibility.

Suddenly, the nest doesn’t feel like it’s  _ enough _ .

“I’ll have more pillows made,” he offers, unable to say more.

“Thank you, Tousan.”

Madara holds tight with equal strength and cups the back of Tajima’s head to bury his father’s face into the crook of his neck. They stand there for a time, rocking slowly and exchanging soft, trilling melodiese.

Unfortunately, as all good things, the moment can’t last. A clatter along the walkway has Tajima pulling back, sliding his palms down along Madara’s powerful arms to interlace their fingers.

“Back!” Izuna announces two seconds before he braces himself on the open doorframe and pokes his head into the room. “Tobirama can do this really neat thing where he just sucks the water right out of stuff. Dried me off completely like that.” He snaps his fingers. 

Tajima takes another deep, rattling inhale and smiles at the scent of home before reluctantly letting go.

“Okay. Did someone die?”

“You’re about to if you don’t get in this nest right now, chick,” Tajima chirps, burying the overwhelming anticipation roiling in his gut in the familiar trappings of slinging empty threats.

“Oh!” Izuna cheeps in surprise, “that’s really nice. Almost the same as home.”

Close, very close. The shape of the nest is right and the feel of the linens, while not rubbed smooth by regular use, is pleasant enough for a three-night stay. Though every single adult tengu here boasts a warrior’s constitution, it’s nice to know that they won’t be making that same flight twice a day everyday—that there will be a small slip of comfort to be had after what promises to be a draining bout of politicisms. Tajima may have a flawless façade and a penchant for misdirection, but even he has his limits. Limits that grow quite a bit shorter with each hour of sleep lost.

“As close as I can make it. Go get Kagami and the rest and we can scent it for tonight,” Madara announces as he finishes arranging a fourth layer of blankets.

Though the memory of color has faded into a vague snapshot of associations, Tajima is certain an equal amount of diligence has gone into the aesthetic as well as the structure. He himself never had such well-rooted brooding instincts, but it’s good to see how well his future grand-chicks will be doted on. They’re going to be spoiled, absolutely insufferable little terrors if Tajima has anything to say about it.

A shifting of Madara’s hakama heralds the fall of a steady hand on his shoulder, jolts him out of his fond imaginings.

“We’ll do yours next, Tousan. Hikaku and whomever else can bed down with you tonight unless Yasei and  Gesshi want to build their own.”

Precisely how much bedding does his son carry?

“No, love, this is spectacular. You are a gift as always,” Tajima replies with raw honesty. Before he can croon and preen his thanks in full, Izuna’s ridiculously loud war bellow slams the air from the room and makes him flinch so hard his wings snap open wide enough his pinions brush the walls on either side.

He’ll be sending up a prayer to Indra in thanks for not letting the brat see.

“Hikaku, you should be demoted for how long it’s taking you to break out of that ninja wire. Hurry it up and get all of your asses up here! You, too, tree-man. Kagami, no, put that nasty thing down it’s not allowed in the nest. Tobirama, you’re perfect,” he shrieks down to the turf below. And to think Izuna was once the quiet chick—second to tumble out of the egg and small enough to hide in Madara’s shadow.

“Damn it, Izuna,” Madara groans, “I asked you to go  _ get _ them, not rupture our eardrums.”

“Sorry, Nii-san,” Izuna cheeps, immediately contrite as only Madara can make him. He clacks back into the room and shamelessly buries his hands into the thick plumage of Madara’s wings nearest where they join his body. A nutty bloom of oil permeates the air and not a second later they both go tumbling into the nest with an airy impact and an undignified squawk.

Their idiocy is a balm for all wounds and Tajima can’t wait to see what Tobirama’s chakric patterns look like caught up in their scuffling. All things considered, their combined bonfire would likely eclipse the sun. 

Chuckling, Tajima joins them much more sedately, adding his own strength to the mix and shoving his way into the center of the nest—the best position in which to be buffered on all sides and buried in family both new and old. He should be more aware of his surroundings, as opposed to worrying the sheets to make a more comfortable hollow, but the world feels fuzzy around the edges, like something monumental has shifted. A three-part soul bond. Incredible.

Apparently Izuna’s cry was effective considering how one crashing swell of chakra at a time fills the room with life.

The next few minutes pass in a confusing rush of movement and clipped conversation, all punctuated by the grunts and straining of Izuna and Madara’s continued battle for…dominance? Claiming the best position? Tajima suspects they only do it for the joy of being able to grapple and revel in the burn of their strength knowing there’s nothing at stake. With the peace accords signed, he hopes that it becomes a more common entertainment between them.

All  _ three _ of them, his new son included. And he’ll stop at nothing to see that end realized.

While he is a tengu of his word, Indra himself won’t be able to stop Tajima from circling his precious people from afar as a vulture would and picking off any voices of dissent whose opinions are misfortunate enough to reach his ears. He may follow Madara’s direction to the letter, but he won’t hesitate to dig in with his talons and snap and tear until there’s nothing left but bone shard, his sons none the wiser.

He swallows past the building saliva and clears his throat.

“Boys, that’s enough,” he trills, jabbing the nearest body with the point of his elbow. Whomever he lands the blow on gives with a pained oomph and rolls away—Madara, judging by Izuna’s cry of victory. Rolling a pleased hum in the back of his throat, Izuna sidles up to sear a hot line against Tajima’s back, not staying still for overly long.

“Kagami why the—no! Put it outside!”

“Oh, quit fussing. Bobble-head is fine,” Hashirama laughs, expertly navigating beneath the heavy weight of Hikaku’s arm where it settles against Tajima’s waist as only a creature well-versed in nest politics would know to do. With a mighty wriggle, he claims the infinitesimally small gap for himself at Tajima’s side and all but squishes his wing under his bulk.

That’s an awful lot of muscle melded to Tajima’s front and Hashirama’s chest has sinfully little give against his cheek. A blanket of tails, the crisp, verdant smell of hair bathed in a spring and sprinkled with sunlight. 

“This is great,” Hashirama announces, echoing Tajima’s thoughts, if not his intent. “Come on, Tobi, squeeze in!”

Claws tap against the floor where Tobirama brings up the tail-end of their retinue, maintaining a distance as he keeps the doorway at his back. “I’ll pass,” he mutters, tail swishing loudly.

“Tobiii,” Hashirama whines, only for Madara to cut him off with a firm pinch to his tail tip. Tajima could have done without that high-pitched yelp right next to ear, thank you very much, but it’s worth it when Madara smoothly speaks up once more.

“Tobirama can do as he pleases. If he doesn’t want to come into the nest, he doesn’t have to.”

Such a respectful chick, and empathetic, too—ruled by his heart no matter how he protests and argues to the contrary. There could be no better mate for a kitsune in need of a gentle hand.

Another small body flaps over them to land heavily on his hip, perching with sharp little pinpricks, and suddenly, their nest is complete. This is everything Tajima has ever wanted. Family. A place for them all to heal.

He’ll fight like hell to preserve this future.

“Tobi-sensei! Stop picking-up Madara-sama’s feathers and lie down. I want to play ‘hop across the logs’!”

It takes an hour of subtle advance and retreat, but ultimately, Tobirama does. 


	14. Interlude - Elder Shippō's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an interlude that takes place before tomorrow's chapter.

Elder Shippō has seen much in his long life. He’s found that there’s a pleasant, straightforward logic to most things when one is willing to shatter a few pots. Often a little destruction is necessary to disclose the true shape of the wire and metal skin anchored deep within the cloisonné of his namesake. This is the truth Inari had blessed him with going on eleven centuries ago, when his paws had first caught fire under the blood moon and the scrying pool glowed for him and him alone.

In the centuries to come he trod upon earthenware shards of all different species and creed, and gathered their secrets close to his breast, careful to keep his treasures protected and his Inari-given epiphanies contained.

When the humans began to proliferate, the zenko took a liking to their oddity, so weak and defenseless as they snapped with toothless maws at the predacious Yōkai circling them. Shippō himself was the one to teach the humans inhabiting the Lands of Fire how to coax metal from the earth. How to shape it with flame and birth both art and function in the same breath. His dirt-stained fingers were those that molded the first iron arrow head in a clay crucible. His kitsune fire gave rise to the knowledge of metallurgy across the humans’ nomadic settlements, and in so doing, gave them the gift of fangs.

Amazing how one selfless act can plunge the world into chaos.

In the end, Inari’s vision was proved to be correct, except it was his own vessel that required breaking, his own truth that had grown obscured by the thickness of a pretty enamel coating.

Bloated by ego and righteousness, he couldn’t have foreseen the far-reaching consequence of his actions—the rise of the tengu in defense of their people, the instinctive backlash of his own. All it took was a single bamboo shaft with its iron head and too-small fletching finding a home in his thigh to crack his resolve in twain. 

Inari guide their hand, the fledgling feathers were so light. So full of down.

No claims of good intentions could ever undo the horror he unintentionally wrought. No amount of honeyed wine can make him forget.

But, from the ashes of his own missteps, others grew wise and learned from his mistakes. Senju Kawaakari, eyes alight with celestial power, was the first to lash out with power unparalleled in the last two-thousand years and wrest the mantle of clan head from his shoulders. With her unique stardust-laden pelt all but glowing in the moonlight, she stamped her paws into the earth and brought forth the first Inari shrine. Not with fire, but earth.

She worried at the bones of the mountains until the whole of Fire Country sprouted monuments of prayer and worship. The humans bowed to her teachings and when Inari saw fit to grant her ascension, Senju Butsuma, her moon-kissed son, easily trod in her paw prints. 

He was a good kit, calm and respectful. Superficially placid as a lake with a core of steel beneath. There was no wavering in his duty to bring peace to the world—to repair Shippō’s gaffe. But now, now there’s so little of what was once staunch resolve left in Butsuma.

Tobirama’s birth changed him and none of the elders can deduce the reason why. Even Inari has been oddly silent to that effect.

Sighing, Shippō struggles to rise from aged knees, thankful for a firm grip to hoist him upright and away from the scrying pool. His claws scrabble noisily against stone as he gathers his paws beneath him.

“Any revelations?” Elder Ichariba, a handsome vixen with skin so dark it shines blue in the light, asks. Her tone is light, but she shares the same tentative hope they all do—begging for insight as to the longevity of this peace to come.

“Nothing,” he admits, “Inari showed me the same swollen moon we’ve all seen now.” A misshapen orb slowly wobbling on its axis, speckled with blue, and almost blinding in its glow.

“Damn,” Ichariba hisses as she helps him adjust his haori and props his folded ears back upright. They will have fallen again as soon as the wind blows, but she has a kind heart for trying. “Well, we’ve got one more chance, Inari willing. You’re up, Butsuma-sama.” 

The air in the small shrine grows thick, smelling of freshly turned soil. “That won’t be necessary,” Butsuma replies without bothering to turn towards them. Arms crossed, long ears swept back, and brow pinched, he looks far older than his six centuries would suggest. “If you’re all through chasing phantoms, I suggest we review the documents one last time before tonight’s signing.”

Padding softly against the flagstones, Ichariba sweeps past in a swirl of gauze and layered bolts of white silk. “They’ve been reviewed in triplicate, Butsuma-sama,” she reports smoothly, resting a hand on his shoulder. The flinch is subtle, but obvious if one were to watch closely. “I’m certain Inari would—”

“Inari can mind their own damn business. Review the accords again,” Butsuma intones, pausing to give his order bite.

With a collective inhale, Shippō and the other elders file out of the inner shrine, leaving its potent clouds of incense and the calming spirit of well-tended prayers behind. Tobirama has done a spectacular job in keeping this first of Kawaakari’s shrines hospitable and fit for Inari’s residence. For all that the kit has been through—for all that they mistakenly proclaimed him to be the second coming of the kyūbi no kitsune when he was still living in their midst—he has been a humble, dutiful son of Inari.

Shippō shuffles slowly along the inner courtyard, content to feel the warmth on his brow and the breeze through his beard. It’s only because of his lingering that he hears the viciously murmured curse, followed by an abrupt smack of what can only be water. He doesn’t turn around, simply waits and watches as Butsuma storms past on powerful hindquarters, several of his extravagantly long tails sodden and whipping in agitation. 

He was never the same after Tobirama.

Inari knows it, too.

Fortunately Hashirama has been a solid presence and a steady hand ruling from his shadow—the true kyūbi no kitsune. Tonight they will sign the final documents of the peace accord, lending weight to a pact long overdue. Then, following the festivities tomorrow night, Butsuma will officially pass along his title as clan head. Two wrongs righted. Two clans made whole.

Shippo strokes his beard as he ambles past the tables prepared for this evening—stunning with their blue drapery and curling mokuton decorations. The fan of feathers placed in a spot of honor atop the sweeping vines of the primary centerpiece is a nice touch, he thinks.

And thanks be to Inari for the veritable mountain of casks of sake and plum wine to come. 


	15. Izuna's POV

Looking into the shifting reflections of fairy lights in his cup of wine, Izuna wonders if kitsune don’t have magic in their livers as well as their paws.

He glances up to take in the dozens of faces both familiar and new all seated around the chabudai in various stages of repose. Everything is blurring at the edges, but he can almost make out a golden-haired kitsune seated in the doorway of the inner shrine and playing the koto while either Yasei or  Gesshi dance. Tajima’s lancers look nothing alike, but they have similarly shaped wings—sharp like a kite. As fuzzy as his head is, close enough.

Thinking right now is…laborious. He smacks his dry lips and takes another delicate sip. 

Tengu don’t drink alcohol as a rule. It’s the perfect storm of poor ethanol metabolisms and the danger inherent in vestibular malfunctions when living suspended from a mountainside. It’s bad enough keeping chicks from toddling off the flight pads much less full-grown adults too deep in their cups. Sure, Tajima may ferment late-season fruits or occasionally distill his own shochu from time to time, but Izuna’s father is a walking parable about what not to do in life.

Ridiculous, indestructible Tousan.

Izuna grins into his ceramic cup, tilting it this way and that just to watch the purple wine slosh. The bokbunjaju is deceptively saccharine with a pungency that only strikes after it goes down sweet as honeyed tea. One sip was enough for him to feel in his  _ bones _ . Yet here these foxes are, quaffing it by the cask-full and still having the gall to talk diplomacy and logistics of all things.

Territory, land rights, grievance and dispute reporting, a joint council in the overseeing of Fire Country and beyond. All such grave, solemn things at their root somehow made lighter when viewed through the bottom of an upended bottle.

To be fair, the kitsune approach to diplomacy made the accord signing go by quicker and with significantly more entertainment value than anything the Tengu elders have ever managed. They’re all lushes. Every single one of them and Hashirama worst of all.

Who knew plants could sing? Flamboyant and completely out of pitch, but sing he did. The lyrics were a poorly improvised love song to his own brother. Lines from the accord were interspersed as he tried to read at the same time and managed to fail miserably in both tasks.

Indra’s balls, the ice on Butsuma’s face could have rivaled the summit of Mount Kurama.

Izuna sputters as he tries to hold back a sudden and inappropriately timed laugh at the recollection. Apparently his obfuscation doesn’t work, because not a heartbeat later Madara grips his wrist tighter than an osprey and tears the ochoko from his fingers.

“You weren’t actually supposed to drink it,” he hisses, clacking his teeth.

Which, fair point, but still rude. Hikaku smoothly intercepts the cup and empties the remnants into Tajima’s tokkuri without drawing any undo notice, promptly returning it to Madara’s hand. He shoots Izuna a sidelong glance and rustles his feathers in a display that imparts a world of meaning, half of which Izuna is going to have to beat his ass for when he can fly straight again. Audacious, disrespectful underlings the lot of them.

Which apparently he said aloud. Neat.

Tajima turns to level him with a strange mixture of curiosity and exasperation, blinks long and slow, then returns to his conversation with a dark kitsune of indeterminate age. Kagami—dear, sweet eggshell that he is—perches on Tajima’s lap with his newly acquired kodama. The chick has been suspiciously quiet all evening and only now does Izuna see that he’s been entertaining himself by tearing apart the decorative fan of feathers from their centerpiece to fashion lumpish little wings. Tatami rush and pinions from several different species of bird litter the chabudai top before him, the kodama wriggling and vibrating in anticipation.

It would be adorable if Hashirama’s forest familiars weren’t so vile.

As if drawn by his notice, the kodama swivels its head half-way around on its shoulders and chitters with those soulless eyes and gaping void of a mouth. Izuna narrows his eyes and bobbles his head right back in challenge. 

Before he can escalate to blowing a raspberry in front of a table full of diplomats ten times his age, his line of sight is filled with thick black hair and his brother’s strong, handsome face. The rolling thunder of his voice this close is mesmerizing.

“Izuna, are you even listening?”

“Honestly, no. I’m too busy being lost in your eyes,” he says, warmed by the way his thigh presses up against the tengu he adores most, kodama completely forgotten. “Do you have any idea how much I love you, Nii-san?”

“Do you have any idea how hard I’m going to throttle you, Otouto?” Madara counters in a voice so low it’s more felt than heard. “Come on.”

Powerful fingers slip between his own and the world around them begins to move in unexpected ways. Fortunately, there’s the solid support of Madara’s hand against his lower back to help wrestle it back into making sense before the simple act of standing up can upend him. 

“I may have had a bit too much,” he admits.

“You think?” Madara replies, tone flat. Despite his obvious annoyance, that muscular arm never once leaves Izuna’s waist and there’s still tenderness in the way their fingers intertwine.

They step away from the tatami mats and the long, elegantly decorated series of chabudai that—until an hour ago—were covered in scrolls, ink wells, and sand. Now there are only cups and conversation—the currency of allies.

“I’m sorry, I really did only have one sip.”

“Izuna, you single-handedly drained the tokkuri.”

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t recall ever having refilled his cup.

Groaning, Madara bumps their wings together as he leads them off away from the inner courtyard and towards a more private area of the shrine. The last rays of sunset stain the canopy in a wash of yellow and orange, dripping down until the shadows of the tall, red torii devour the color completely. The lingering notes of the koto fade the further they descend, and even the deep, resonate hum of voices falls silent after a time.

The cadence of oncoming night begins to seep in and fill Izuna’s world with rustling leaves, thrumming insects, and a deep seated sense of peace.

“Kitsune hospitality includes making sure a guest’s cup is never empty,” Madara intones once they’re far enough away, “and apparently they like making damn fools of themselves.”

“But, I liked your friend’s song,” Izuna interjects, tripping over a tree root only to be saved from an ungainly tumble by being pressed tight against his brother’s side. 

“I’m fairly certain you were the only one,” Madara points out. 

Izuna snorts and squawks with a sudden, unrestrained burst of laughter, leaning even harder. “It was so bad! The part with the—” He pauses trying to think of how to describe the cross between a dying rabbit and a squirrel’s love ballad and winds up trying to warble an atrocious approximation instead.

The woods fall dead silent except for Madara’s reluctant, full-bodied laughter. “Stop.  _ Stop _ ! Once was more than enough,” he groans, pulling them both up short and pressing a hand over Izuna’s mouth. “I don’t need a repeat performance. And don’t you dare lick my hand, Uchiha Izuna.”

Izuna blinks coquettishly over the top of Madara’s thumb and dutifully closes his mouth. His back comes to rest against the smooth, papery bark of a maple tree—because apparently they had still been moving—and his world is subsumed by the heat of his mate along his front and the lingering burn of alcohol in his belly.

Madara’s palm slides away to be replaced by lips far more potent than any kitsune wine. The kiss is unhurried, a slow, languorous exploration, before Madara pulls back just enough to meet his eyes. They continue to share breath as Izuna’s heart jolts into his throat.

How he was so fortunate to first share an egg, now a nest with this glorious, perfect tengu?

“Nii-san—”

Fingers gently card through his bangs and sweep them back so Madara can plant an equally arresting kiss on his forehead.

“Hush. We’ll wait here for a while so you can sober up.”

“More kisses would help,” Izuna croons, fanning his tail feathers and arching his wings up high to capture the last vestiges of light on his glossy pinions. It’s a blatant invitation for so much more than measuring the weight of each other’s tongues. Even if his mind can’t settle on one topic, his intoxicated body certainly can, and in record time, too. 

Clutching fistfuls of hair, Madara gives Izuna’s head a soft shake and makes the world waver for a second.

"Absolutely not. I can’t think of a more inappropriate place and you taste like rotten fruit.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

They stare intently at each other, red on red, until Izuna folds, moaning and looking away. “Fine,” he says dejectedly, “then we’d be better off finding a river or lake to drown me in. Why do those stupid foxes drink this stuff? It’s  _ awful _ .”

Rolling his head back to look up at the darkening skyline, Izuna continues to bemoan his plight internally, but with feeling.

Only because Izuna’s chin is canted towards the canopy does he notice a sudden flash of cobalt and magnesium reflected through the leaves. It flares so bright that the foliage turns completely white, then fades back into an even deeper darkness.

“Shit. Was that foxfire?” he asks, confused as to whether what he’s seeing is real or just another series of drunken afterimages. Whatever was in that drink, it doesn’t mesh well with his Sharingan. Instead of his view being filled with the toothsome lines of Madara’s face, he can only see a misshapen field of light, renewed every time he blinks. 

“That’s what it felt like,” Madara replies, distracted.

There’s tension beneath Izuna’s palms where they stroke his brother’s corded forearms. Before Izuna can croon and maybe offer a little preening to sooth him, another thrum of power sets the leaves to quavering violently, this time accompanied by the mild, wafting scent of celestial power—an earthy, indistinguishable taste that they are both well acquainted with. 

They held that star song between them only a few hours ago, in fact.

“Tobirama,” they murmur as one.

“I need you to stay  _ right here _ ,” Madara orders, urgent, but not unkind. His rough hands caress Izuna’s cheeks, slide down to rest on his shoulders like anchors. Warm eddies of chakra buffet Izuna’s coverts in a voiceless plea to heed his command.

Cute.

As if something as banal as a little wine would ever stop Izuna from charging headlong into…whatever Tobirama seems to be pissed off about now. If he were sober, he wouldn’t dare upset or defy his mate, his lodestone, but his pickled mind doesn’t seem to be his own at this point. 

Izuna continues to blink rapidly, relieved to note his eyes are fine and the afterimage is fading as it should even if the world continues to list slightly to the left. “Nice try, Nii-san,” he chirps with a grin that means nothing but trouble. “Bet I can beat you there!”

Before Madara can react, Izuna drops straight down, uncaring of the way the bark catches and pulls at his haori like little claws. There will be irreparable runs in the silk, but that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Izuna—it’s not like these are his mating garments. Tobirama is keeping those safe for him, after all. 

As soon as his bottom hits his heels, he plasters his wings against his back and lunges sideways through the gap beneath Madara’s arms, spinning on his talons to take off into the trees.

“Izuna, stop!”

A sharp tug on his tail feathers and a sudden release gives him an additional little burst of propulsion that nearly lands him on his face.

Should he listen to his Nii-san? Definitely. Will he? No. Not at all. Not with Tobirama’s magical kitsune fangs bared and a new undercurrent of power rippling through the ground and rising to meet him in a disproportionate display of power. There’s only one potential landslide of a kitsune it could be with how earthy the signature tastes lapping against his chakra coils.

Ignoring his beloved mate’s warning shriek, Izuna runs.

Blessed with the robust constitution to support them, Madara’s broad wings are built for effortlessly capturing thermals and drafts to soar for miles. His endurance is legendary among their kind and his vast wells of power are nigh inexhaustible. Even Tousan for all his strength can’t match his glorious Nii-san.

Unfortunately for him, right now Madara’s prowess doesn’t count for owl pellets. Not here where the trees are too tightly packed to extend those gorgeous pinions wide enough to launch.

Izuna grins into the wind as he sprints on unsteady talons, heart palpitating with the joy of getting his way when by all means he really shouldn’t even be allowed upright. He’ll pay for whatever he’s about to do come morning—Tajima genuinely will pluck him if that’s Senju Butsuma he’s about to accost. Right now, though, Izuna has never felt more confident about a poor decision in his life.

He’s _ invincible _ .

Sticks crack under his weight like sun-bleached bones as he blunders through the ubiquitous darkness. Finally there’s a break, still compact, but spacious enough to snap his wings up into scoops and generate a chakric wind to lighten his footfalls. 

His squadrons call him a shrike for the way he gleefully impales enemies onto spears and sharp outcroppings alike, but his wings are more reminiscent of the knife edge of a swift. They’re designed for maneuverability in tight spaces and speed—magnificent, insurmountable speed.

There’s a long string of curses interspersed with his name tailing him as he caws and trills the stupidest war song ever voiced by a tengu throat. 

He has no clue whether it’s Madara roaring in that strained mix of panic and anger or if he’s having auditory hallucinations as well as visual. All Izuna knows is Hashirama would probably give him a standing ovation for it. 

The tree line comes sooner than he would have expected and Izuna stumbles as the terrain shifts from rich, firm loam to grass. His talons sink in deep and trip him up so effectively he’s only saved from falling tail feathers over tea kettle by a series of conveniently placed futons.

Except futons don’t lash back like naga strikes and they certainly don’t snarl.

Izuna snatches a double fistful of whatever ugly, brown sheets are beneath him and hoists himself up into a half-seated sprawl, shaking his head to try and get rid of the sudden wave of nausea. Nests on this mountain are the worst.

There’s a heavy silence all around him, broken only by the distant babbling of the Naka no Kawa and…oh…that’s not a friendly face staring down at him with golden kitsune fire blazing in its eyes. Butsuma Senju’s celestial markings flow down from his eyes like tear tracks, lending a distinctly crimson cast to their glow.

For the first time in his life, Izuna feels as if he’s been caught in his own d ōjutsu . 

In the indistinct stretch of time spent frozen like a rabbit and clutching at fox tails, heavy footfalls devour the grass and grow near almost instantly.

“Senju Butsuma-sama, I sincerely apologize on my brother’s behalf,” Madara’s baritone voice rumbles through the night, smooth and self-assured. The tremble in his hands as they clamp around Izuna’s biceps to haul him upright is the only indicator to belie his easy confidence. “No insult was intended. Our kind has no tolerance for drink and Izuna sampled far too much of your generosity this evening. I ask that you please forgive his offense.”

The stiff formality is so bizarre coming from Madara’s mouth, lips more fit for war cries, gentle chiding, and professions of love. Too, Izuna has  _ never _ seen his brother bow, not to the elders, not to Tajima, not to anyone.

“You’re Tajima’s boys,” Butsuma observes, waving the apology off as his eyes dim back to black.

Even if the danger has mostly passed, the kitsune’s multitudinous tails continue to sway back and forth like adders and Izuna fights the overwhelming urge to shrink away. There’s still fur coating his sweaty hands and a couple of Madara’s feathers, though they look a little different under the pink-tinged light of the moon.

He can’t recall accidentally plucking any just now.

“I expected more from the two of you, but I can’t say I’m surprised. I suggest you hydrate him,” Butsuma snorts, thinning his lips in disdain as he whips around and settles his weight more fully into his paws.

Movement in the dark draws Izuna’s attention, has him snapping his head over to where Tobirama watches the tableau with undisguised fury—cold and arresting. Their mate was so quiet and still, Izuna hadn’t even realized he was here. To be fair, he also failed to observe that ‘here’ was the same peaceful valley they had run to earlier in the day and not the shrine itself.

Indra preserve him, alcohol is the shinigami’s drink. 

“This conversation is over. Hashirama is my heir and I won’t humor any argument against it,” Butsuma announces as he strides past Tobirama, looking for all the world as if he had caught wind of a particularly unpleasant smell. He motions towards the two feathered tails swaying gently in the wind. “And you would do well to cut those monstrosities off. Tengu are gluttonous. They lack commitment unless there’s a signature to force their hand.”

Without hesitation, Butsuma takes a long, bounding stride forward and disappears across the valley in a series of golden flashes, bending space and time to suit his will and leaving only clouds of kitsune magic to glitter in his wake.

“Asshole,” Izuna mutters, only to have the back of his head smacked. For such a weak blow, his world rocks with it.

“You don’t get to make comments right now, Uchiha Izuna,” Madara snaps. Despite his obvious frustration, he returns his arm to Izuna’s waist and holds on tightly—whether to ground Izuna or himself remains a mystery. There’s a note of desperation in the way he clings. 

“Sorry, Koibi—”

“ _ No _ . Just stop talking. I need you to be quiet.”

Only now in the aftermath does Izuna understand just how grievous of a misstep he’s taken. As strong as they are with their odd eyes and even stranger abilities, Butsuma is as old as Tajima and inordinately powerful in his own right. A six-tailed kitsune is nothing tame, no domesticated animal to treat without caution—he could have killed them both with certitude if not ease. 

It doesn’t matter that Izuna had no intention of actually assaulting the Senju clan head. It happened. And Madara raced to save him from his own impulsivity, same as always. 

Izuna fleetingly catches Tobirama’s attention and looks away.

In turn, Tobirama watches them with glassy eyes as red as their own in the moonlight, skin made even more pale by the soft illumination. He stands stock still, breathing quickly with fists clenched at his sides. 

“Are you alright?” Madara asks Tobirama, telegraphing his movements as he leads Izuna to approach as delicately as possible. Each stride feels like it’s being taken with legs made of tofu—spongy and too heavy for his knees to support.

Amazing what shame can do. And alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol.

“I’ve been lied to,” Tobirama grinds out through gritted teeth, “again.” It’s not a direct response, but answer enough.

Izuna wants to ask, or maybe bypass that altogether and blurt out an assertation that Senju Butsuma can take a long, wingless dive off of a high cliff. Fortunately, Madara is a steady, ember-handed hearth cradling him close by the hip and cupping Izuna’s wings under one of his own. His brother’s presence is all the reminder he needs to keep his drunken opinions to himself, especially with the twist of embarrassment still writhing in his gut.

Tails lashing, Tobirama closes his eyes and tilts his face up to reflect the light of a full, fat moon. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak again, then promptly closes it with a snap of teeth. His eyes slip shut, white lashes fluttering under the fringe of his hair.

It’s incredible how magnificent he is in his anger.

For a long moment, they wait. Three mates simply sharing a stretch of sky and a patch of grass as their clothing billows in the jasmine-scented breeze. The atmosphere is tense, but it’s not expectant and the anger isn’t held between them. It’s an impotent, generalized thing.

Finally, Tobirama’s hands relax at his sides and a fistful of fur scatters on the wind.

“My anija has not been leaving the mountain for annual sojourns with his mate, as I was told.” He inhales sharply and snaps his long ears flat against his head. “He’s been acting clan head in Butsuma’s stead for the past fifty years.”

Which would mean that while Tobirama won’t have the direct opportunity to lead, there’s now nothing left to stand between their bond.

Izuna’s heart fills with a swelling, effervescent joy so intoxicating he would be drunk with it if he weren’t already marinating in wine. Not an alcohol-laden second later—which could be the span of a heartbeat, could be a quarter of an hour—he chides himself for the sloppy, besotted grin his face splits into. Now isn’t the time. Tobirama,  _ their soul-mate _ , is obviously distraught and Izuna won’t allow his instinctual tendency to rejoice sour the budding trust between them.

Even so, it takes a Herculean effort to convince his heartstrings to stop twisting themselves into knots, giddy with the possibility.

“What do you need, Tobirama?” Madara asks, caring and empathetic in his blunt way.

Not ‘What can we do?’ No empty platitudes or performative kindness. Nii-san is always so good at consoling others and negotiating peace, no matter how he denies his own talents. He listens to subtle cues and knows to give Tobirama time to collect his thoughts in silence without pressing.

Izuna isn’t quite so patient, not when he’s sober and especially not now. It’s all part of his exuberant charm.

A low, thrumming melody begins to roll in the back of his throat, rising up and flowing into a tune he hasn’t heard since he was a chick, but recalls with crystal clarity. It continues to fill the space between them of its own accord. Sweet, gentle, and above all, honest.

One of Tobirama’s ears flicks towards them, soon followed by those clever eyes, so very much like their own.

“What is he doing?” he asks, shoulders taut.

Madara lets loose a huff of laughter and softly bumps his head against Izuna’s.

“He’s drunk and singing you a lullaby,” he replies, voice canted low to maintain the delicate balance of the moment. “Knock it off, Otouto.”

“No,” Tobirama interjects before Izuna can even process the order, “let him continue.”

Tousan’s voice will always be the best fit for the complexities of the rhythm, but Izuna has always been a more than passable wood thrush himself. He would posture proudly at the recognition if his wings weren’t cossetted by Madara’s. Instead, he contentedly leans into his brother’s side and lets the fullness of the lullaby bloom. If there’s an added note of longing to it, it’s only a reflection of his own truth.

Sweet and tender, he sings into the night, erasing any trace of Butsuma’s vitriol and replacing it with the undeniable beauty of birdsong.

In Izuna’s distraction, Tobirama approaches on silent paws. The metallic embroidery in the haori Madara commissioned for their first mating glitters as he brushes the remaining fur from his palms and smooths down the front panels. He’s glorious—spectacular in the way his fingertips trace the intricate patterns of stars and linger like a lover.

There’s consideration there, possibility.

He looks to Madara first. “To answer your question, I don’t know what I need, though I am starting to form a conclusion regarding what I want. Too, my choice has the added benefit of being completely abhorrent to the man who birthed me,” he pronounces, all banked flame and dwindling rage.

A derisive snort and he turns his attention to Izuna.

Slender fingertips tingle against Izuna’s forehead—cool and grounding as Tobirama’s touch pierces through the haze of intoxication. Green chakra grows brighter and brighter in the darkness, enveloping his head in a warm diadem before petering out and scattering like a lazy swarm of fireflies. Clarity is a soft, subtle gift and all the sweeter for having been given freely. It’s not as if Izuna would have even known to ask for healing, but the way Tobirama touches him without flinching is heartening, nonetheless.

Izuna’s song slows to a stuttering stop. 

“You’re a gift,” he murmurs reverently, having only intended to offer thanks. It’s true, though, so he doesn’t try to take the statement back, instead holding it deep in his lungs along with his breath.

Tobirama looks at him for a long moment—takes in his open earnestness—and, after a moment of evident hesitation, strokes his jawline with a soft and callus-free palm.

This time, the tremor is almost absent in the face of a new-found conviction.

“You’d be the only one to think so,” he observes with a touch of wry self-deprecation.

“I don’t care what your shitty excuse for a father thinks,” Izuna chirps without holding back. Amazing how sobriety can open the sluice gates drunken deference kept at bay.

“Izuna,” Madara warns.

“No, it’s true and our soul-mate needs to hear it.”

Madara subtly clacks their lacquered talons together. “He hasn’t accepted the bond and he certainly hasn’t agreed to dealing with your mouth.”

Tobirama looks pained—pressing his lips thin and shaking his head slowly as if trying to figure out a particularly incomprehensible puzzle. “I’ve made a list of reasons as to why a soul bond between us would be a terrible idea,” he admits solemnly, “yet somehow my thoughts continue to return to the two of you. For all that you are both extraordinary fools, you have done nothing but honor me with the veracity of your words and actions.”

Madara’s muscular wing flexes around Izuna’s in a subtle tell that would have gone altogether unnoticed except for the fact that they’ve spent their entire lives wrapped up in each other’s pinions. Anticipation, yearning—though he would never express it outright.

“There’s no expectation and we would never force you to choose. Especially not right now,” Madara states, voice steady even as his grip tightens around Izuna’s waist.

Tobirama impatiently waves him off.

“It would take Yōkai far more powerful than you to force me to do anything I’ve decided against,” he rumbles with a smirk, sobering quickly enough. “Besides, my den is far too small in this form. I would like to weigh the merits of my tengu soul-mates’ nest before committing to a night of digging.”


	16. Tobirama's POV

In a strange way, Izuna’s exuberance makes his body language simpler to interpret than Madara’s. There are oddities in the near constant rise and fall of wings and in the undercurrent of multi-tonal chirps he continues to belt out between phrases, but his joy is clear enough. It’s in the flush of his cheeks, the ridiculously besotted smile that keeps threatening the integrity of an otherwise delicate face.

That this unabashed favor is directed towards Tobirama now is humbling.

And Madara himself, while seemingly calm and composed, is a bonfire of chakra so powerful it threatens to sear through Tobirama’s over-sensitive channels like a conflagration. Though, it’s a path of destruction that he finds himself beginning to welcome. Passion and an almost insurmountable yearning thrums hot and potent at Madara’s core, unlike anything he has ever experienced.

To be the target of that intensity, that burgeoning affection…

Tobirama blinks slowly as he stands at the precipice of something unknown. The sheer magnitude of it all is terrifying. A vast sea of linens and pillows lie before him—the same nest he had sampled earlier in the day, if tentatively and too anxious to properly appreciate it. Their simple, yet rich mix of crimson and cream is a stark backsplash against the darkness of his soul-mates’ hair and feathers.

With the soft-lit lamps, the faux aerie has an otherworldly feel—like a dream—enticing and too easy to be real.

“Are you coming?” Madara asks, raising his visible eye-brow in equal parts invitation and challenge. That ridiculously massive chakra flares once more, belying the uncertainty behind his easy confidence. Now that Tobirama knows what to look for, they’re so similar in their underlying natures, these two brothers.

May the blood moon strike him where he stands, it’s still strange to internalize the admission that these two tengu—his  _ soul-mates _ —were chosen by Inari to augment his strengths and protect his weaknesses. He doesn’t quite understand how he can perform the same service in turn, not when the brothers seem to have already established a flawless unit of love and devotion. Still, every second spent basking in their warmth is another incentive towards his resolution to try.

Hashirama has already spread his roots into clan leadership and now with Butsuma’s disfavor as another point towards cementing the bond, there’s really no reason to refuse a celestial gift.

Patting the open space between them—large enough to fit Tobirama three times over—Izuna lets loose another bright, staccato series of cheeps. “Of course he is, Nii-san,” he scoffs, “he’s already had a taste of your nesting. There’s no way some dirty hole in the ground can compare to  _ paradise _ .” 

Tobirama snorts, crossing his arms as he tentatively rests one hind paw on the upraised rim of pillows.

“I take exception to your uncomplimentary and entirely inaccurate assessment. Perhaps there will be better company had amongst the insects in my ‘dirty hole in the ground,’” he drawls to cover his lingering unease—his undeservedness. Smirking, he takes his foot back down.

The effect is immediate.

Izuna squawks as he tries to flap his way to his feet, but winds up with his hind talons trussed in a sheet instead.

“That’s not what I meant!” he shrieks, full lips rounded and the feathers at his temples fluffing up to give his hair a rather wild appearance. He kicks at the gentle tether and rucks up his hakama in the process. Tobirama isn’t surprised to note the long line of scales along his digitigrade legs, though it’s still interesting to observe how they give way to feather tips peeking out just above his knee.

“Tear my nest and you’ll never sleep in it again, Otouto,” Madara intones, watching his brother with an eagle’s intensity.

Apparently it’s not an empty threat for all that it was delivered mildly. Izuna stills, eyes wide.

“He said he’s leav—”

“He’s goading you,” Madara states, glancing back up at Tobirama for confirmation. It’s a gamble, but a successful one.

Tobirama nods imperceptibly and, bracing himself, steps over the threshold of the nest. His heart begins to race, the sudden flood of anxiety taking hold and making his chest burn and the backs of his forearms tingle. Ruthlessly tamping down on the panic, he brings his other paw to follow suit and kneels down between the two heralds of his future, tails fanning out behind him.

“I am. For a supposedly vaunted warrior, you’re rather easy to rile up,” he announces, voice a touch deeper than his already strong baritone. “You’ll have to grow thicker skin if you expect to survive as my mate.”

There.

Here—sitting seiza amongst a veritable mountain of bedding, bracketed by two of the most toothsome Yōkai he’s ever come across—Tobirama makes his decision. One of the brothers will likely rule as clan head of the Uchiha and there will need to be a compromise regarding their living arrangements. He will not leave this mountain that has become such an integral part of him over the course of the last century, but the tengu have wings. They’ll make it work.

And Uchiha Tajima has displayed firsthand how welcoming their clan is, how demonstrative they are with family. How  _ loving _ . No kit that comes of this union will ever go without as he himself has.

It’s a very different conclusion than he tried to convince himself of prior, when ascending in his Anija’s stead had been his ultimate motivation. Perhaps the greatest liar has been himself all along.

Breathing in long and slow, Tobirama fills his lungs with the smell of all of those who scent-marked the nest earlier in the afternoon. His mates, their family, Hashirama. Be it the natural inclination of the bond or some deeper understanding of his soul-mates’ character, Tobirama can think of no place he’d rather be at this very moment.

Finally, he exhales and allows the fear to leave along with his breath. When he looks back down, Madara and Izuna have reached across the prodigious gap to hold hands. Reclined, they both look to him with matching smiles, teeth white and cheeks dimpled.

“He’ll work on it,” Madara states, wings twitching and beginning to fan across the nest of their own accord. Izuna, poleaxed, tightens his hold of his brother’s hand and nods.

“So you’ll stay?” he asks, the quiet note of yearning implying far more than ‘for the night’. 

Amazing what gentle, honest vulnerability they both offer a kitsune they barely know. Though, they must be feeling the same magnetic pull in their bond that he is—like a bloated, gravid swell of fate. 

Divine providence is beyond his knowing. Tobirama only recognizes what he feels, and right now his soul is being set alight by a spark of hope. 

Casting aside any lingering hesitation, Tobirama reaches across the divide and traces the seam where Madara and Izuna’s palms connect with a boldness altogether alien to him. Their skin radiates, far warmer than any other he’s touched and so very inviting.

“Convince me,” he says, though it’s no longer necessary. Nothing can sway him from his course. Be it through Inari’s beneficence, or Indra’s, or simple happenstance, after a hundred years of being displaced in time, Tobirama feels like he’s exactly where he is meant to be.

Madara moves first, as slow and inevitable as continental shift. He flexes his hand around his brother’s once more—a gesture of reassurance—and hooks his thumb up around Tobirama’s fingers to pull them within the cup of their palms. To include him in their affections.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he retorts, not unkindly, “I don’t think there’s too much convincing left to do.”

Allowing himself to be outmaneuvered, Tobirama concedes the point with a wry smirk. “Perhaps,” he admits.

“So wait, does that mean you’re staying?” Izuna asks breathlessly, knuckles turning white against the bedding where he’s buried his talons in a rather tenuous attempt to restrain his excitement. It’s rather telling how much effort he has to put into keeping his other hand gentled around Madara and Tobirama’s fingers. “Like, really staying? With us?”

“My anija is already clan head,” Tobirama answers, voicing the painful truth once more to drive the point home for himself, “I have no reason to deny the bond.”

There’s a moment where Izuna simply looks up at him in wonder, still and quiet but for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Time seems to slow until realization catches. Eyes glassy, he whips his head towards Madara so fast his trailing ponytail fans out like a spill of ink.

“We can make eggs now, Nii-san.” He trills the non sequitur so sweetly the words are more melody than true language.

Tobirama doesn’t understand the implication—he’s not well-versed enough in tengu culture yet—but from the way Madara’s breath hitches, there’s something of vital importance there. His new mate swallows heavily and closes his eyes, seemingly composing himself before he runs his fingers through his voluminous bangs and holds them back to bare his face. Without the mass of hair to half hide him, Madara looks younger, less certain than his bearing would suggest. 

“Yes.” A pause. “We can,” he finishes, voice deep and gravelly. Then his eyes snap open once more, alight with hope, and Tobirama is lost. 

Broad wings spread against the nest to either side of him, displaying the undeniable proof of Tobirama’s soul-mark within, each flawless feather tipped with the three celestial slashes gracing his own face. An interesting coincidence that the signs of Inari’s favor come together so naturally in the artful splay of a bird’s foot. Not unsurprisingly, Tobirama finds himself drawn to the potent display of vulnerability, claim, and aesthetic. 

While the feathers collected from a thousand birds sit in a place of honor amongst his den treasures, those flimsy pinions fail to compare to the sudden wealth he can see offered alongside his mates’ submission. 

It’s well past time for him to reciprocate. 

However, before he can, the room spins and he’s reminded once more that no matter how tender his mates may be in their manner towards him, they’re still undeniably powerful  yōkai . Madara barely has to flex to pull him out of seiza and down into a bellyflop on the nest. Silken linens cushion his fall and pillow his body as fully as an embrace. 

The impact sends up another burst of mate-scent—sweet, fragrant, and smelling of fall acorns—and the underlying remnants of Hashirama’s own botanical signature. In the span of an afternoon, this pile of pillows and blankets has become more reminiscent of a home than his den has ever been. It has to be the bond engendering him to the situation so quickly. Surely that’s all that’s to blame for the way his heart races with more than just typical kitsune skittishness. He yanks hard to reclaim his hand and presses up to level them both with a sullen glare. 

Izuna laughs, high and raucous, echoed by Madara’s more restrained huff of amusement. With the return of a little levity, the brothers’ expressions shift into something less raw, but no less honest.

“If you ‘have no reason to deny the bond’, then quit stalling and appreciate my nest properly,” Madara quips, chakra so bright it burns. 

It’s another request for more, couched in the trappings of a challenge. One Tobirama won’t back down from this time. 

“What is there to appreciate?” he yips, punctuating his snide comment with a flick of his ears as he reaches out to capture a lock of Madara’s hair and bring it to his nose. 

Embers and ozone. 

“This pile of cloth doesn’t even have the decency to press against your flanks.” Like a den. He means it in the way the walls of a den press protectively against all sides, not whatever has Madara’s brow rising and Izuna’s cheer taking on a sly edge.

“I guess we’ll be working on those eggs sooner than I thought,” Izuna chirps, scooting over in one smooth, coordinated glide to rest alongside Tobirama, hand hovering over his hip and close enough for their disheveled clothing to brush. 

Not a second later, Madara rolls fully onto his side to arch his wing over them all, batting Izuna back down to the nest and pinning him. “Ignore him,” he grunts, though Tobirama notes that his weight shifts closer as well, if a touch more subtly. “That’s not what we brought you here for.”

“Oh? Do my charms fail to titillate?” Tobirama asks dryly, bullying down the involuntary unease at their proximity.

The response isn’t what he expects. Madara’s demeanor shifts once more, lips turned down at the corners and an odd intensity drawing a furrow between his brows. Here, in the shadow of a massive wing and bracketed by heat, Tobirama has no escape from the gentle talons that slowly brush against his forehead and map his cheek, down his jawline, to linger on the point of his chin. He finds himself leaning in with the motion even as his instincts balk.

Soft breath against his lips. The smell of Izuna’s sake kisses already had.

Inari save him, he wants what his soul-mates share—the regard, the passion, the  _ love _ .

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Madara murmurs, closing the distance.


	17. Tobirama's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, I just want you to know that I've seen all of your comments and absolutely adore the feedback! I wish I had the time to respond to each and every one, but unfortunately right now I'm having to focus on getting the chapters up and writing new ones. Thank you so much for your kind support! <3

Tobirama’s first kiss isn’t an explosion of light, no prodigious celestial event. It’s more. After a hundred years adrift, he’s finally come home.

Amazing how all it takes is a confident press of lips to shatter him completely. And here he thought he had made himself so strong throughout the years—a stalwart constitution wrapped in so much spite and vitriol that nothing could touch him. No barb could find a home in the thickness of his skin.

Apparently there had been a chink in the armor after all.

Madara’s fire-brand lips pull away far too soon and Tobirama rolls to his side as if in a daze, watching and being watched in turn.

Behind him, Izuna twitters another of his sweet laughs and settles his hand to find purchase in the divot beneath the muscle of Tobirama’s Adonis belt. The touch is new, intimate, and has him wondering at his own instinctive need to push his hips back even as he fights the urge to chase Madara’s taste again.

“Look at what you’ve done to my nii-san,” Izuna cheeps. Having the warmth of his breath so close — hot against the exposed nape of his neck—makes Tobirama shiver. “I’d say your charms ‘titillate’ just fine. You should kiss him again.” 

“Izuna,” Madara warns, but it’s true. The flush of his lips, the way his eyelids hang heavy with want even as he maintains a respectful distance.

Izuna, however, has no such compulsion to practice restraint. A kiss pressed just beneath his hairline has Tobirama inhaling sharply, distracted by the sheer amount of stimuli . For all that he practices stoicism in the face of the unknown, he imagines he looks equally as taken.

“What? He said he’s staying.  _ Staying _ , Nii-san! And you know I’m right, anyways,” Izuna announces, boldly interpreting Tobirama’s shudder as the invitation it is to sear a firm, hot line along his back.

“Right or not, tonight isn’t about us,” Madara asserts with equal certitude.

“Not even— ”

“ _ No _ .”

“Okay, Koibito. Okay.” Izuna’s chin settles on Tobirama’s neck and shifts as he nods slowly, though his embrace remains low and strong. “Sorry,” he murmurs to Tobirama, “there’s been a piece missing for so long it’s hard not to get excited now that you’re here.”

Tobirama tries to breathe, but his lungs fail him.

There’s no denial from Madara, only a slight softening at the edges as he reaches out to tuck a strand of Izuna’s bangs behind his ear. His chakra laps placidly, coming down from the conflagration it had been to burble like a magma flow. 

He’s content, Tobirama realizes—while Izuna freely speaks whatever he thinks or feels, Madara shows it in other ways, but no less effusive. Distracted by the epiphany, he flinches slightly when Madara’s voice sounds again, closer this time.

“What is it  _ you _ want, Tobirama?”

What does  _ he _ want? No one has ever considered his desires worthy of discovering before.

Lying here between two ancestral enemies — strangers he somehow knows as intimately as his own heart—held close and sequestered away from the world at large, he can let it all go. No secrets, no  _ lies _ . He owes his soul-mates that much.

Air comes easier this time.

“I want to be wanted,” he answers, revealing the one truth kept hidden so deeply not even his Anija could find it. Something strange shifts in his chest and aches like breaking at the admission.

It’s only when he feels the cushions shift beneath him that he realizes he’s screwed his eyes shut, snapping them back open to find the smooth contour of Madara’s cheek immediately before him. This time the kiss is even lighter ,  fluttering against each corner of his mouth before gracing his lips with impossible care.

In this moment, he thinks he can understand what it must be like to be Inari, worshipped and tended to without malice. How captivating, how divine.

“We can do better than that,” Izuna says, voice oddly thick. He nuzzles along Tobirama’s shoulder and clings so tightly there’s little left but cloth between them.

Madara warbles, a deep, satisfied vibration taking root in his chest. “We’ll show you what it’s like to be loved.”

The whine Tobirama lets slip is a final death throe.

Love . N ot the affections of a brother nor the regard of human penitents traded for divine favors. Real, unconditional acceptance for everything that he is and isn’t ,  a concept he wouldn’t even allow himself to ruminate on in his own head for fear of how it would irrevocably change him.

Beyond the ability to speak, he clings tightly to Izuna’s forearm with one hand and reaches up to hold Madara’s jaw steady with the other —t wo anchor points in a life lived unmoored. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to ask for anything further. Madara tilts his cheek into the scoop of his palm and angles in to slot their lips together properly.

It’s warmth, and acceptance, and everything good despite not knowing how to reciprocate. Even so, Madara guides him with gentle touches and deepens the kiss further until Tobirama can taste the wine Hashirama favors heavy on his tongue. He imagines Izuna’s mouth would be equally as potent—pictures how lovely the two brothers would be wrapped up in each other with no end to the stretch of pale skin and midnight hair.

Such an overwhelming flood of sensation is something he’s never experienced before, bigger than he is. Bigger than anything and twice as mystifying. 

Until now. 

This time when they part, he understands what the slow burn in his stomach means. Anticipation, attraction,  _ desire _ . 

Plum wine sits heavy on his tongue where he licks at the slight stickiness Madara left behind. He moistens his lips again, ignorant to the way that raptor’s gaze zeroes in on the motion.

“Again,” he demands, barely recognizing his own voice for how it drops in register. His fingers find purchase in the front of Madara’s silks. There’s so much fabric between them, too much for his avaricious hands as they knead the thick muscle beneath. Now that the sluice gates have been loosed, there’s no purpose in denying himself the pleasure of touch.

Because that’s what this full-body tremor is — pleasure, not fear. He can tell the difference now.

A knowing narrowing of his eyes, and Madara takes him by the waist to pull him in and give him precisely what he asks for, though not in the way he expects. Thick arms wrap around both his waist and Izuna’s, solidity flush against his front and back. There’s unbridled intimacy in the press of their bodies, yet the position cleverly restrains his wandering hands all the same.

“Easy,” Madara croons, “we have plenty of time. Just go slow.”

Tobirama scoffs. As if he hasn’t waited a lifetime already. 

“Did you ask me what I wanted simply to have the satisfaction of denying me?” he grunts, shifting restlessly in the press of fur and feathers to no avail. Blankets slide under the pads of his paws and offer little purchase.

Still, as much as it rankles, he knows his mate is correct. Between gaining a new form, establishing a peace accord, and the founding of their soul-bond, his entire world has shifted today. It would be best not to broach another area of the unknown tonight no matter how his instincts rail at the denial.

Ridiculous kitsune propensities—skittish one minute, presenting himself to mount or be mounted the next.

Too clever by far, Madara fails to react to the barb and draws absent circles on Izuna’s hip instead, stroking his muscular forearm along Tobirama’s waist with each pass. “Sure, because when I think ‘laying the groundwork for a life-long commitment’ the most important part is obviously the fucking,” he says without inflection.

Behind them, Izuna coughs unconvincingly.

The ludicrousness of the statement is sobering and draws a touch of the heat in Tobirama’s loins back up to his cheeks. Of course rutting like forest animals isn’t the most crucial display of being well and truly wanted, it’s only that he’s never been shown what  _ is _ .

“Don’t get me wrong, all you have to do is say the word and I’ll be face-first in the nest, tailfeathers up,” Izuna announces shamelessly, letting go of Tobirama’s hip to reach out and tweak a downy feather on the back of Madara’s neck, “but Nii-san’s right like usual. We should figure out each other’s boundaries so we don’t accidentally push too far or run you off. And let me tell you, that’s huge coming from me.”

Shaking his head, Madara strokes the hair from Tobirama’s forehead and ghosts his fingers along the furry edge of one fox ear, making it twitch. “Trust us to take care of you. We respect your choice too much to offer you any less.” 

He graces Tobirama with one more chaste peck—this time on the very tip of his nose—before pushing up onto one elbow just enough to free his wings completely. It’s a complicated sequence with far too many appendages to account for, but he completes the motion with practiced ease before returning to burrow into the divot made by Tobirama’s weight.

Just as Tobirama thinks he might understand, everything shifts to throw him off balance once more. At least carnality is something tangible, measurable, and concrete. The promise of care, love, and now respect? It’s all too fantastical a concept to grasp.

“If the intention of my being here isn’t mating, then what are our roles? What are the expectations? What should I be  _ doing _ ?” he asks in mounting frustration.

“You could try relaxing, maybe?” Izuna cheeps.

Odd how such a lackadaisical suggestion can serve as a hundred-year epiphany.

Floored, Tobirama defers to the simple wisdom and forcibly unclenches his body one muscle group at a time. His soul tails continue to wriggle where they’re pinned between his and Izuna’s thighs, but those ridiculous appendages are beyond his command. Quite frankly, this entire situation has spiraled outside of his control.

Descending like the night, Madara stretches out one massive wing to settle over the three of them. Feathers brush against Tobirama’s fur and all but drown him in the smell of wing oil and belonging—cozier than any den. 

“Wanting you doesn’t mean—” Madara begins only to fall silent mid-sentence, head lifting to stare intently at the thatch panel door.

Tobirama’s ears prick towards the near silent beat of wings and the light click of talons on wood soon after. Four impacts land in quick succession—the return of the Uchiha delegation—and hushed conversation rises and falls just outside. Tajima’s distinctive laugh concludes whatever discussion is had and the entire group continues along the gangplank towards the uppermost aerie. Tobirama has no shame in his choice this evening, but he finds himself relieved not to be faced with discovery all the same, not when everything is still so new. Uncertain and strange.

“Wanting you doesn’t mean taking advantage of you,” Madara finishes once they’ve passed. “You’ve had an eventful day and we wouldn’t be worthy mates if we didn’t consider your wellbeing first. We can figure out the details tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you feel comfortable.”

Fidgeting, Izuna nods and bumps his forehead against the back of Tobirama’s neck. “Just this is really nice,” he adds, calling attention to how easily they slot together.

Tobirama takes a moment to collect himself. It’s a testament to just how naturally in-tune the three of them are that the brothers don’t push. The prolonged quiet is comfortable—unexpectant—and the tender, reassuring touches even more so. Now that his blood has cooled, he can see the sagacity in taking the time to connect like this before establishing anything permanent, particularly after coming down from the exchange with Butsuma.

He wasn’t ready for more. What he needed was acceptance for who he was, not what he could give, and that’s precisely what he received. These tengu truy are a gift. 

“If your people have returned it’s likely late. We should sleep if we have any hope of being well rested for tomorrow’s pomp,” he says in an obvious attempt at obfuscating the emotion causing his throat to tighten, “I would also like to return to my shrine before the elders stir to judge the suitability of your gifts…for Inari.”

“For Inari,” Madara agrees, gracious enough not to call him on the lie. “We’ll be here for you in the morning.”

There’s another word tacked on at the end, possibly an endearment judging by the context, but Tobirama can’t discriminate between bird calls well enough to know for sure. 

Izuna nuzzles into the back of his pelt and whistles an answering arrangement that has Madara’s wing tightening around them all.

Conversation stops, replaced by the hum of insects and the subtle sound of thatch shifting in the wind. Shafts of moonlight shift across the floor and illuminate the opulence of black feathers. It doesn’t take long for Madara’s breathing to even out, the movement of his chakra stilling beneath his skin as his firm body grows heavy.

Even though Tobirama was the one to suggest sleep, he finds himself too restless to capture it for himself and looks up to the rafters instead. 

“Nii-san’s always been able to fall asleep fast. I think he knows I can’t rest until he’s safe and dreaming,” Izuna murmurs when the moon shifts again, equally as alert.

Tobirama turns slowly in place so as not to wake Madara and pillows his head on a folded arm. “My people call it ‘the sleep of the innocent’,” he observes.

Snorting, Izuna brings him back down to reality. “Not even close. We’ve both done some pretty horrible things to protect our family. Nii-san’s just better at,” he flutters the feathers along his temples as he searches for the right wording, “compartmentalizing? I have trouble turning my brain off of ‘danger mode’ and…well, you saw.”

He did. But the events Tobirama observed weren’t the actions of a malicious, predatory yōkai; both instances of Izuna’s loss of control were inundated by an almost palpable fear. It’s a conditioned response that will have to be shaped into something less catastrophic, certainly, but not enough to divert Tobirama from his path as Izuna’s inability to meet his eyes would suggest.

Tobirama smooths his palm down the lithe curve of Izuna’s waist and watches his folded wings shudder. “Or perhaps the issue is that your brain is always turned off,” he jibes, gentling his words with a single raised eyebrow.

Izuna’s sharp gaze snaps up immediately, an answering smile slowly unfurling bright enough to fight back the darkness. “You don’t care,” he says, voice soft and awe evident. “It really doesn’t bother you that we—that I…You’ll stay even though—”

The unexpected timidity is disconcerting considering what he’s seen thus far. Briefly, Tobirama wonders if Izuna’s brazenness is an act—paper armor erected to conceal an insecurity they seem to share—yearning for acceptance, but too cautious to believe when it’s offered freely. 

The revelation is freeing in a way.

“Did you doubt my resolve?”

Silence hangs between them, broken only by their shared breath as Izuna flounders with his words once more. Tobirama well understands the gift he’s been given in being allowed to witness his mate’s weakness. Again, he wonders if this easy ability to trust is another inherent aspect of their bond, then immediately discards the notion. To attribute Izuna’s raw unfolding to divine influence would be to cheapen his surrender. Because that’s precisely what this is, a sacrificial offering of his greatest flaws laid bare for Tobirama’s judgment.

When Izuna begins to turn puce, Tobirama sees fit to end his self-imposed struggle. “No, I will not leave simply because my mates frustrate me or have flaws. I have my own as well, which you will have to accommodate for to a certain extent. I have no experience in what it is to be part of a union, but I well know the importance of compromise, and I suspect you and your brother do as well.”

“Are you sure? I’m really impulsive and do dumb shit without thinking,” Izuna presses, shifting his knee to slide along the overlap of Tobirama’s. 

“Your self-awareness is uncanny,” Tobirama retorts. His ears perk forward then swivel to the sides as he lifts his leg just enough to allow the leathery shin to tangle with his own, the warmth of Izuna’s pelvis coming to rest against his thigh.

A quick series of peeps and Izuna eagerly wriggles as close as he can, bumping the soft underside of Tobirama’s jaw with his nose. It’s the same behavior he exhibits with Madara and Tobirama doesn’t know precisely what it means, but it’s heartening all the same to be allowed the experience. Kitsune perform something similar in fox form—a matter of deference—though this doesn’t feel like a reaffirmation of power dynamic.

It feels like affection.

“I fight chicks over nest rights at night,” Izuna continues, grinning into Tobirama’s neck.

“I suppose a hierarchy must be made amongst the less intellectually developed.”

That at least earns a hot puff of air and shaking shoulders. Izuna leans into him further, so close there’s no way to tell which heartbeat is his own.

“I can be annoying. Like _ really _ annoying. All the time.”

“You can,” Tobirama agrees as he scoots them back to more fully anchor the dead weight of Madara’s arm around them both. He finds that adding his own to the embrace—long fingers interlaced, talons and claws clicking together over a trim waist—is effective in stilling Izuna completely for the first time since they’ve met. “Yet despite these things and any other insecurities you may have, I will not be dissuaded from securing our bond.”

A surge in Izuna’s pulse where it beats steady and strong along Tobirama’s front belies his level-toned “oh.” How incredibly soft his tengu mate is beneath the bluster—a monstrous façade moored in ferocity to disguise the fear and tender devotion that drive him.

Burying his nose in Izuna’s hair, Tobirama breathes deeply and notes the pleasantness of their mingled scents. “‘Oh’? Are you not going to assail me with the minutia of Madara’s faults as well before you determine my claim to be honest?” he murmurs as he shifts his trapped arm beneath Izuna’s head to free his hand and tangle it in the soft strands of his ponytail.

“Nope. Niisan is perfect,” Izuna replies with sober conviction. “You’ll see, he’s literally the best possible mate.”

“Then it would appear Inari has seen fit to gift me with two consummate partners,” Tobirama decides.

They lie in the darkness with no one to witness the way Izuna clings except for the narrow shafts of moonlight shining down from the vents above. His labored breathing evens out after a time, yet his fists stay just at tightly buried in the back of Tobirama’s pelt.

“Can I kiss you?” Izuna asks, finally breaking the silence.

“You may.”

Interesting how Izuna is equally as intent on obtaining permission as Madara when the stakes are raised, when the tide shifts from carnality to emotion. As before, Tobirama meets him halfway.

This kiss, when it comes, is nothing like Madara’s despite the brothers having been mates for so long before him. There’s no soft, simmering need, no incredible self-restraint to bank the coals and focus instead on the feel of the kiss itself. Izuna’s passion is flavored by desperation, a fervor in his hands and lips as he gives everything of himself all at once.

It’s not perfect. They don’t know each other well enough to fit together quite right with this degree of passion, and Tobirama has no practical experience to begin with. There will be time to figure those things out, though.

For now, Tobirama meets him as well as he can and accepts the roving touches and building heat between them. It continues to rise until small bursts of black flame flicker harmlessly in Izuna’s hair, reminiscent of kitsune magics. A similar feel, but somehow  _ other _ .

Allowing himself another long, luxurious taste, Tobirama uses Madara’s lessons to gentle his lips and bring Izuna back down. They pull away, panting and rubbing their cheeks together like courting foxes. 

The mutual reassurance is pleasant.

“Rest assured, I will remain when morning comes,” Tobirama intones, bullying that incessant need for more down to burn in the pit of his stomach where it can do no harm.

“Promise?”

His own kitsune fire flickers even as Izuna’s fades, igniting the plum wine on his lips and turning green with the ethanol. He cants his chin down to place a gentle kiss on the pale stretch of Izuna’s forehead, pulling back to watch those intelligent eyes fall heavy even as he fights the sleep seal Tobirama placed.

“You have my word.”

At that, Izuna’s chakra calms, the undercurrent of electricity and the subtle scent of ozone fading as he goes lax against Tobirama’s chest, fast asleep. At his back, Madara’s weight shifts despite his chakra network remaining as placid as it had been when he was supposedly unconscious. He’s an exemplary sensor like Tajima and himself, then. Another truly dangerous tengu, and now Tobirama’s to love.

It’s only by the grace of his sensitive kitsune hearing that Tobirama notes the exact moment the brush of lips against his shoulder resolves into whispered words.

“Izuna has a soft heart. Thank you for looking out for it.”

As if he could do any less.


	18. Madara's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks! I got caught up working on the Uchiha pin-up calendar last weekend. Here's your chapter. XD

The morning dawns crisp and bright with promise. 

Heat brackets Madara from all sides—fur, feathers, and the steady, even breathing of the two most important yōkai in this waking dream. Last night was truly a gift sweeter than any other. Listening to his brother open up to someone, anyone other than himself was heartrending and knowing that Tobirama, whose taste still lingers on his lips, is now their mate...it’s like he’s been caught up in his own genjutsu. And because he can think of no better place to be, fate sees fit to upend the shogi board with an ominously familiar click of talons. 

A pause, then the shifting of feathers and fabric comes to a stop just shy of the nest as Tajima sinks down to balance on the balls of his feet.

“Have you made me a clutch of grandchicks yet?” his jarring chirp resounds right next to them. 

Blearily cracking open an eye, Madara watches his father hover close to Izuna’s ear. Instead of lashing out for the first time since he can remember, Izuna comes to with a groan and buries his face further into Tobirama’s chest to hide. No flashing talons, no battle cries or beating wings. Even Tajima raises an eyebrow. 

Another unintelligible grumble and Izuna pulls Madara’s wing up over them as an additional barrier against their father’s inescapable bullshit. Though, ignoring Tajima has never dissuaded him from his relentless teasing. The exact opposite, in fact. 

“Hikaku, are you witnessing this travesty?” Tajima asks in a doleful hoot as he bounces in place.

There’s an aggrieved sigh from near the doorway and though Madara can’t see him, he can picture the harried tengu leaning against the frame, arms crossed and wings drooping. “I’ve been around for quite a few of them, unfortunately,” he mutters under his breath. 

Whatever blackmail material their father has on him must be heinous to have kept Hikaku loyal through the centuries of chicks’-games, Madara thinks wryly. Surely no one is that much of a masochist to tolerate Uchiha Tajima of their own volition. Snorting, he pulls Tobirama—and Izuna by extension—close, petting the tense slope of first one hip, then the other with his and Tobirama’s interlaced fingers. A downy thigh pushes back against him, though he can’t tell whose by feel alone. 

“Here I am expressing my fondest well-wishes for my son and his soon to be family, only to be shunned for my troubles. Is it so wrong for a poor, elderly father to be invested in his grandchicks’ lives with what few years remain to him?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Hikaku intones.

“Unbelievably doting and kind-hearted, I know,” Tajima shoots back without missing a beat. He shuffles forward in a crouch, tail feathers dragging, and flicks Madara’s wing joint hard enough to make it jerk on reflex. 

Hissing, Madara flexes to ease the ache and extends his pinions back out fully, but not before Tajima’s white eyes light up like prayer lanterns. 

“Wait, you’re all still wearing yesterday’s clothes? No wonder there’s no egg count yet! Do I need to order Hikaku to present the sex talk again? His oratory skill is much improved from the last time, I assure you,” he continues to wheedle. “We’ve practiced.”

Indra save them, flying into a cliff full tilt would be preferable. Madara and Izuna had been mated for nearly twenty years already when Tajima thought up that particular war crime. Madara still cringes at the memory of Hikaku, unable to meet their eyes, monotonously explaining the mechanics of safe sex to his war-battered generals after they had the audacity to ignore debriefing in favor of reuniting with each other in their nest. They try not to speak of that night.

“I’m disappointed in you, Madara. I assumed you and your brother had at least figured that part out from the regularity of the noise complaints I receive, but perhaps I’ve overestimated your prowess. I suppose Izuna’s constant screaming is just for effect.”

Izuna whistles a broken series of expletives, muffled by Tobirama’s skin. Fortunately, Madara is far better with stringing words together this early in the morning. “Tousan, we need to establish some boundaries,” he grunts, voice thick with sleep.

“I’m your father so there are none. Good talk,” Tajima continues, waving off Madara’s concerns with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Now how many chicks will I have the opportunity to spoil? Be certain to double your estimate. After all, there’s a reason Inari is a fertility god and Indra’s effigy has a prick for a nose.” He laughs puckishly and taps his own with a red-lacquered talon for emphasis. “I should know.”

What’s being implied is a mystery best left unsolved. Not for the first time, Madara weighs the merits of patricide to keep it that way. 

“You’re overstepping, Tajima,” Hikaku points out.

“The young I painstakingly incubated in my very own womb contrived to have me retching half the night, Hikaku. They’ve earned this,” Tajima shoots back, just as primly.

Tails lash against Madara’s underwing coverts and, though he refuses to move his wing to unveil any part of his newest mate, the wiry muscle under his palm turns to steel with tension. He and Izuna had worked so hard to build up a bond of trust between the three of them as they learned how they fit together—tasted the shape their puzzle pieces could take. The last thing they need is to backslide because of their father’s inexplicable, poorly timed ribbing.

Squeezing Tobirama’s fingers between his own for reassurance, Madara curls down to nuzzle the snowy fox ears peeking just above his wing. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t interfere, Tousan,” he reminds between short, soothing clips of birdsong. Izuna picks up the melody seamlessly and Madara takes solace in the way familiar talons reach across to catch in his obi. 

Tajima’s lips thin, conflicted. 

“Well, from now on—” a pause, “Hikaku, take note of this—from now on, all verbal agreements will have a contingency clause in the event I’m ever force fed matsutake by a chick barely out of his down that allows for some harmless teasing and two exceedingly embarrassing mid-coitus interruptions.” 

Finally, Izuna deigns to stir, but only enough to pull Madara’s pinions down beneath his chin and level Tajima with a cross-eyed glare. “That wasn’t our fault! You’re the one who talked himself into a corner with Kagami,” he asserts. 

As if they aren’t all completely aware of that fact. But far be it for their father to take personal responsibility and give up the opportunity for exacting recompense. He’s becoming predictable in his ‘old age’.

Tajima opens his wings and flaps them lazily as he looks up to the rafters, feathers rising and falling in a wave down the back of his neck. “Hmm,” he hums deep in his throat, “it’s the strangest thing. I can see my chick’s lips moving, but I can’t hear a word over the lingering taste of fungi. Hikaku, have you ever experienced sensory substitution following a traumatic event?”

A consummate soldier, Hikaku knows when to advance and when to maintain his defenses. He keeps his peace and shifts his weight near silently.

“You’re no fun today.” Rolling his white eyes, Tajima pats down Madara’s unruly bangs and sweeps them to rest behind his ear. The same talons Madara has watched tear yōkai down in one stroke trace the contours of his face with nothing but affection. A gentle kiss follows, warm against his temple. 

“Regardless, there are fresh clothes laid out for the three of you. I have business to attend and, as such, you lot now have the unenviable task of finding Kagami wherever the hell he and Hashirama toddled off to.”

At his brother’s name, Tobirama stills. Last night they had been so wrapped up in the unfolding emotion of their bond that there hadn’t been time to truly discuss how Tobirama felt about Senju Butsuma’s claims. His poison. Now, Madara thinks that may have been a mistake.

They’re still learning. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Tajima says, misinterpreting the severity of Madara’s expression, “Yasei and Gesshi are with him. And make certain you drag him to breakfast. Hashirama, I mean. I like to have something toothsome to look at with my meals.” 

“Why are you so awful?!” Izuna shrieks before the words even finish leaving his mouth, bucking in place and reaching out to snatch at the nearest tail feather. Fortunately for them all, his swipe fails to land and Tajima easily drops a knee to pin his hand to the nest. 

“I’m the vessel of Indra’s divine retribution, prick and all,” Tajima replies, laughing long and loud at the affronted screech.

Linens wrinkle and pillows buckle under the combined weight, an inexcusable offense on any other morning, but Madara lets it pass in favor of easing himself flush along Tobirama’s back. He’s worn ceramic armor with more give than the corded muscle pressed against his chest.

Sensing the same, Izuna begins to fluff up under Madara’s wing. “Go away already, you menace,” he rails, flaring his chakra so powerfully static builds beneath his contour feathers. 

However, Tajima is a daitengu warrior through and through. Nearly six-hundred years of wielding the title of clan head with as much skill as his gunbai has prepared him to sniff out weakness fiercer than a heavenly hound. He takes advantage of the moment to swoop down and press a kiss to the top of Izuna’s head. 

The affection ameliorates Izuna’s pique near instantly. He settles back against Tobirama with a huff and a reluctant, but sweet little trill. Tajima returns it, grinning all the while. 

“Prepare yourself, Senju-sama. It’s like this every day,” Hikaku calls out from the doorway, still too respectful to enter their aerie properly. 

Flinching at the use of his name, Tobirama reclaims his hand from Madara’s and eases himself upright using Izuna’s hip as a brace. Pale skin stands out in stark contrast against the black feathers still blanketing his lap. His haori gapes open almost indecently, revealing a wide swath of muscle from his collarbone all the way down past his navel, teasing at the beginning of a trail of white feather down. 

Madara swallows past the tightness in his throat and eases up onto his elbow, not surprised to note Izuna’s sudden silence. 

“Your concern is appreciated, though unnecessary. I’m well-versed in constructing wards and their merits are beginning to look much more attractive with each passing moment,” Tobirama states dryly. If the bedraggled state Izuna had returned to the clan in was any indication, the threat is not an idle one.

Tajima smiles with far too many teeth and clacks a talon against them. “Oh, come now, there’s no need for that. I humiliate them out of love,” he croons bright and cheery, punctuating his statement with a little hop in place, “and a healthy dose of spite. But mostly love. You, my dear, are fortunate enough to have earned a grace period.” 

Not that it will last long. 

“And how have I garnered such an honor?” Tobirama asks, voice laced with sarcasm.

Tossing his head, Tajima looses a songbird’s titter. “You made my boys happy,” he announces, turning a soft smile to both Madara and Izuna in turn, “and there is no greater gift you could have given me on this or any other morning.” He reaches across his body to slide his fingers up the quill of a covert the length of his forearm, plucking it with a sharp tug from his inner wing.

Tracking the slow, meandering drop of blood, Tobirama’s eyes shoot wide when the feather is offered up to him—newly molted and still shimmering with stardust. He doesn’t take it at first, doesn’t understand the meaning behind what is essentially an overt offer of adoption.

Madara holds his breath and takes Izuna’s hand. A long moment passes and though they try not to influence their new mate’s choice, there’s a tremble to his brother’s sweaty palm that he can’t seem to still. Maybe it’s him. As his grip falters, one of Tobirama’s tails slithers around his waist, the other threading around Izuna’s thigh to anchor them under what privacy Madara’s wing continues to offer.

It takes a long stretch of indecision, but Tobirama ultimately reaches out to accept the feather. “I share the sentiment,” he says with a sharp nod, color rising to his cheeks for all that his voice and bearing remain aloof. 

Their father is a tactile tengu, loving unconditionally and speaking through a diverse language of touches. Even so, the tenderness with which he slides his talon tips along Tobirama’s kitsune markings is something Madara has only seen shared with himself and his otouto. Bearing witness fills his chest with warmth.

“Welcome to the family, son. I’ll forgive the mushroom debacle and leave you three to enjoy your morning a little longer.”

With that, Tajima rises smoothly from his crouch and strides across the room, wings half arched behind him and displaying his joy for all to see. He glances back over his shoulder with sightless eyes and winks before turning back to Hikaku.

“Come along, we’ve taken up enough of my kit’s time.”

“Of course, Tajima-sama.” Leaning down to gently knock foreheads, Hikaku accepts Tajima’s hand in the crook of his arm and leads them out into the red morning light.

It takes some time for Tobirama to thaw, staring at the closed door as if it holds an enigma he can’t hope to solve. “What is the significance of accepting this feather?” he asks slowly so as not to disturb the peace of the moment.

His voice is a deep, but fragile thing. 

“It’s a sign of favor,” Madara replies, careful not to appear overeager. He reclaims his sweaty hand as he sits up and awkwardly twists at the waist to keep his wing settled over Tobirama’s lap, preserving the last shred of modesty left to their mate.

Unconcerned by the fact that his gaping haori showcases every ripple of vulpine muscle just short of his groin, Tobirama leans back onto one arm and holds the feather aloft. It glitters, glossy and pristine as he rolls it between his thumb and forefinger to catch the light. 

“Favor,” he repeats.

A particularly strong beam of sunlight illuminates the vane and sets the surface alight with celestial glow—like the opalescence of an oyster shell.

“More than that, I suspect.”

Of course it is. How can it not be? As close as Tobirama tries to hold his secrets, the hoshi no tama within him radiates with the depth of his passions. Intelligence, power, devotion—all shining through the cracks in his façade to outline an image so beatific it blinds. 

As sensitive as he is, Tajima could surely feel the magnetic song of such a soul. 

The sweet melody of belonging. 

Ignorant to his brother’s internal poeticism, Izuna maneuvers his way into pillowing his head on Madara’s wing and turning in place to rest his cheek against Tobirama’s stomach. Hair loosed and spilling, he’s achingly beautiful as well and Madara finds his chest a little fuller thinking of how his family has grown. Another mate to bring them wholeness, reuniting with an old friend, and a formal accord to protect their chicks—it’s more than he could have ever hoped for. The momentous power of it all steals his breath and any further explanation along with it.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Izuna agrees, easily taking up the conversation in his stead, “it’s an avian thing and now it’s a ‘you thing’, too.” The sheer, unbridled joy in his smile is enough to give Tobirama pause. “We flock, so the more tengu there are to love you and lift your wings, the better. Not as mates, obviously, Nii-san and I are the only bastards lucky enough to be able to court you. Which, I think we packed some gold and silver in with the offerings. And I’d bet my flight feathers that Yasei brought his wire-working tools. He always does.”

“Will you be reaching a point anytime soon?” Tobirama prods, easing upright to stroke his fingers through both the silken hair fanned across his lap and the feathers beneath. Interesting how quickly he picks up on their cues—speaking honestly through touch no matter what words or acerbic tone may spill out.

Izuna cheeps and flutters his eyes at the soft scratch of claws against his scalp. “Not if you keep doing that,” he announces, nuzzling further into dangerous territory.

Madara hides a snort of amusement behind his waterfall of hair. No matter how they age or what trials they face, Izuna will always be a chick at heart. He has always been the one to keep Madara aloft. 

“We give our feathers to family,” he states, glancing up to gauge Tobirama’s reaction. 

There’s a slight tension around his lips, yet his body stays lax and the feather never stops spinning in the light. 

Bolstered, Madara broaches the topic more fully. 

“In our tradition, mates fashion each other a wire earring with coverts and close family members exchange feathers to add to our uchiwa. The more full the uchiwa, the more powerful the wind we can summon with it.”

“Because family is what gives us strength,” Izuna adds. 

For all that Indra is their patron god, the Uchiha have always put their own first. The lord of the devas has never begrudged them the practice and has never faltered in casting his crimson eye on the night once every hundred years in approval. In blessing.

Because matters of the heart will always be the grounding of the soul. 

“By offering you a blood feather,” Madara continues, “Tajima is taking it further and telling the world that you’re a part of his direct lineage. An attack on you in any way would be an attack on him. He’s essentially offering to take you under his wing.”

The feather stills. A faint dusting of pink along the pads of Tobirama’s fingertips shows the truth of it, as stark as the crimson soul-mark emblazoned on its tip. He scans the massive feather from tip to quill, saying nothing for a time. 

“Calling me ‘son’ was not a disparagement,” he finally states, voice pitched low in disbelief.

Pressing a chaste kiss just below Tobirama’s navel, Izuna lazily flaps a wing and lets it slap back down to the plush nest. The unexpected motion has one of Tobirama’s ears pricking forward, but his eyes stay locked on his own hand. 

Slowly, white lashes fall against pale skin. A pulse of blue flame flares on his shoulders like the ghost of wings, there and gone in an instant. It’s obvious that it’s all a bit too much, too soon, going from thinking himself mostly alone to having an extensive network of love proffered without strings or malice.

Madara can understand the struggle even if his stomach clenches with it. 

“You don’t have to accept. We know you didn’t understand the implication and Tajima won’t take offense if you tell him ‘no’.” 

Instead he’ll cling to the idea with all the tact of a fox worrying down a whale bone, but that’s a cautionary tale for another day.

Eyes opening only enough to reveal a thin, red slit, Tobirama flicks his ears back and forth at the sounds of the forest waking beyond the aerie walls. “The day is beginning and I, like your father, have duties to see to,” he announces abruptly. 

A flimsy excuse. They all know it. Regardless, Madara nods his understanding and tugs their mate’s haori back into place. Hikaku was kind enough to bring Tobirama a fresh kimono—one of his own to fit the kitsune’s height, no less—however it doesn’t feel right to mention it. Asking him to remove the courting garments could be interpreted as a slight. Best to wait. Or have another set commissioned. 

Maybe forgo changing altogether and just shove him into the river every day when the sun is heavy and fat at its apex, Madara thinks wryly. 

“I will have to deliberate on this offer another time. Thank you for the pleasant evening.” 

“Take all of the time you need,” Madara grants, even as Izuna slams his hands down and throws himself upright in a panic. Pillows tumble out of their measured lines under the force of his frantic scrabbling. 

“Wait! You’re leaving?”he asks incredulously, eyes wide and fists clenched in the sheets. Runs in the fabric branch out from his hooked talons.

The outburst draws Tobirama’s full attention, has his tails bristling before the fur settles once more. “I—yes. For now,” he sighs, shaking off his own hesitance with a series of breathy yips.

Madara’s ears barely pick up half of it even if he can feel the sound in his bones. Still, the point is clear enough when Tobirama proceeds to trace unintelligible patterns through the downy undercoats of their wings. 

The nomadic touch lingers well past the point of preening etiquette, slipping away only with reluctance. 

“I intend on keeping my word,” Tobirama reminds them. His word—a promise to stay in all of the ways that matter. 

Gathering Tajima’s feather close to his chest, he rocks up to his paws and leaps over the tangle of sheets and limbs to land lightly just beyond the edge of the nest. Tails like snow and shadow flare out to balance him, all three visible and proclaiming the soul bond they share. 

He glances over his shoulder, mouth opening and closing in rapid succession as if swallowing what he had intended to say. Instead, he nods and takes his leave, the scent of home in his wake. 

As soon as the door slides shut on its casters, Madara feels the familiar pressure of his brother pressing against his side. Strong arms wrap around his waist just as Izuna trills and hides, half buried in his hair.

“We overwhelmed him,” he moans into the sensitive skin of Madara’s neck.

And yes, they did. As well meaning as they are—as their family is—there’s such a delicate balance to maintain in accounting for all of their needs while not offsetting others. Again, it’s something that will come with time and experience. Not that patience has ever been one of Izuna’s many strengths. 

“He just needs space to think,” Madara reminds him only to be accidentally, but rather violently headbutted under his chin. The spark of pain is commonplace enough to make him flutter his feathers in fondness.

“Sure, but we made everything about us,” Izuna squawks. Not surprisingly, he buries his nose into the softness beneath Madara’s ear and climbs onto his lap. A plaintive hoot has Madara curling his wings around them to bracket his brother from all sides and hold him close.

“What do you mean, Otouto?”

“Tengu this, Uchiha that. He said he wouldn’t give up his home and here we are talking like he’s expected to drop everything and be a part of our flock. What if we scared him off? What if he changes his mind?  _ What if he doesn’t come back _ ?”

Indra preserve him. Izuna is never this uncertain, not in war, not in anything. That beloved, confident smile should never be allowed to falter, even if Madara can feel the same low grade fear settling in his own stomach.

“It’s fine, Koibito. Everything will work out,” he says, leaning back to lie supported against a mound of pillows. Izuna follows him down and wriggles up to keep them plastered chest to chest. “Last night he had a taste of our culture, today we’ll make a point of sampling his. Haven’t we always been willing to compromise?”

“I guess so,” Izuna murmurs.

Madara tugs on his hair until they’re sharing breath and looking at their own reflection in each others’ eyes. “Then why would our bond with Tobirama be any different?” he points out.

“It’s just,” Izuna begins, voice rattling on a shallow inhale, “I love you more than anything, Nii-san. You know that. I want to be allowed to give him the same.”

A swell of surprise flares in the chakra signature lingering just outside of the door. Turnabout is fair play, Madara supposes, having done his own fair share of eavesdropping the night prior. Soon they’ll be comfortable enough to exchange these truths in the light as bonded mates. Until then, this ebb and flow of pilfered secrets will have to be enough. 

“You will, Koibito. We both will,” Madara reassures, allowing his own muffled insecurities to be seared away by the pleasure of Izuna’s embrace.

By the passion of his kiss. 


	19. Hikaku's POV

Bursts of color flare in the shrine proper below, zenko spirit fire of all different spectrums giving rise to the gentlest of thermals. It’s a lovely panoply of light and all the more beautiful for being crafted by allies. Or so they say. Hikaku isn’t as aged as some—doesn’t have the wisdom of a thousand years—but he’s lived long enough to be cautious when shoving his hand into a viper pit. 

Kitsune chase each other in and out of the tall torii as he lands in the center of the shrine proper, Tajima a light, airy presence at his side. They flash between forms, howling and yipping all the while as if there are no concerns past what pleasures the day will bring. Fur melds into silk and peeks of bare flesh as they weave a joyous stream like water on a prayer wheel.

Beautiful. Mercurial. Dangerous.

“You’re being overly suspicious again,” Tajima informs him, the heat of his hand a familiar weight as he sidles in close. “Keep it up and those unsightly wrinkles will gain permanence.”

Always with the witticisms.

Hikaku grunts noncommittally and pats the back of his clan head’s hand. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Feathers brush against Hikaku’s wingtips, gently chiding the way they quiver in anticipation despite his easy agreement. With as close as they came yesterday to having Izuna tear a path through flesh and peace accord alike, he doesn’t think he’s being overly cautious. There’s too much potential on both sides for things to go  _ wrong _ right now when everything is still so new. If anything, Tajima is too optimistic, has far too much bounce in his stride with fox-fire sweeping a low wall around them and Senju Butsuma’s gaze burning into their backs even hotter still.

Yes, Madara and Izuna have apparently worked quickly over the course of a single day to woo the Senju clan heir—their soul-mate of all things—to their nest. Tajima moved even more swiftly than that to claim the kit as his own. And as sweet as it all is, Hikaku wants nothing more than to wake from this fever dream into a world that makes sense again. Cut and dry negotiations, a tense but iron clad armistice, and a  _ reason _ for his wings to continually ache when the weather changes.

He doesn’t want the war, doesn’t want to roll up and discard any more empty nests, but it’s hard to think that centuries of sacrifice can be forgotten with a single handshake. If it was so easy, why hadn’t peace been negotiated earlier? Back before the humans grew bold. Back before he slammed down in front of the two fledglings of his heart to block a blow meant to end their line. Madara and Izuna were forced to witness the worst their race was capable of that day, all housed in the piercing cry of Uchiha Tajima’s retribution.

By the end of it the cliff was bathed in red and twin sets of eyes filled with an unnatural reflection of Indra’s color all their own. There has to have been a reason for the scars they all share, both visible and otherwise.

Tajima sighs explosively. “And now you’re being unbearably depressing. Would you be so kind as to still your chakric bleed over, please and thank you. I swear, you’re worse than that brat of mine some days,” he chirps, glancing up to level Hikaku with an unimpressed frown. “You’re fine, the boys are fine, and I’m as lovely as a newly-budded cherry blossom. Relax. I’ll make an order of it if I must.”

For all of the power thrumming under his skin, Uchiha Tajima’s force of will is his most dangerous trait.

Hikaku resigns himself to another day spent watching this unrelenting force of a tengu wrap the world around his talons. 

“Because vacation is what we’re here for,” he shoots back, softly butting shoulders.

As if by design, a slender black fox pelts across the flagstones in a flurry of paws and oversized tails the second he allows himself to be distracted. Wind whips in the vixen’s wake as it flies past, yapping its joy in the single most ear-splitting note Hikaku has ever had the misfortune of hearing outside of Izuna’s unholy screeching. It cavorts around them in a meandering circuit before shifting as it spins up and up, shedding its fox form with a slow bleed of kitsune magic. Fur melds into a sumptuous, orange kimono to cover the far richer swath of deep brown skin.

“Good morning, Uchiha Tajima-san, Uchiha Hikaku-kun. I trust you two slept well considering you’re very late,” she says, plucking a leaf out of the air as it floats past and holding it up to cover one eye. The seven points of the maple leaf overlap the red starburst of Inari’s markings perfectly. 

“An intentional delay, I assure you,” Tajima replies with an equally lackadaisical flick of his wings. “How else would I be able to catalogue my dreams of you?” 

Elder Ichariba’s smile crests white like the moon. Another victim to Tajima’s charm. The leaf bursts into star dust and lingers in her close-cropped hair, painting the simulacrum of a night sky.

“You should have been born a kitsune with that silver tongue of yours,” she proclaims, laughing in a rough, handsome way. Insinuating her tall frame between them, Ichariba smoothly replaces the crook of Hikaku’s elbow with her own. “Come, Butsuma-san is waiting to have a private word with you and I’m afraid he doesn’t make allowances for a pretty face like I do.”

“Oh? I’ll have to try harder then, shall I?” Tajima hums in interest as if he hadn’t apparently birthed the Senju clan head’s chicks while they were still in the thick of conflict a hundred years prior. There must have been plenty of  _ allowances _ , Hikaku thinks wryly. And that is a conversation that will absolutely be had later. Another of Tajima’s tall tales laid bare—no longer a story of love and loss on the battlefield wherein his destined tengu mate was cut down only a few days after their whirlwind courtship. Not that he would ever let slip the knowledge, but Indra’s balls it’s frustrating to be subject to shifting truths. 

And Senju Butsuma of all misbegotten yōkai. Fluttering his wings, Hikaku takes a step forward to follow only to be brought up short by Tajima’s palm against the flat of his stomach. “A private word, love. It’ll only be a moment.”

“All it takes is a moment for you to upend the world,” Hikaku mutters under his breath. “Behave yourself.”

“Where is the fun in that?”

Hikaku watches Elder Ichariba’s ears flick back and forth, an astute expression of consideration on her face. These zenko are no fools despite their bent for mischief and merrymaking. Amber eyes sparking with chakra, she leads Tajima away, glancing over her shoulder once to offer Hikaku a slow blink and a tilt of her head. It’s reassuring in a way. 

What’s not reassuring is standing alone and without a purpose, subject to cloying wafts of aloeswood from the shrine at his back. Deep in its aroma and resinous in a way only Kyara can be, the incense overrides the scents of family tengu so painstakingly propagate in their plumage. 

Pleasing the kami’s palate should never be prioritized over the comfort of hearth and home. Backwards foxes. 

Hikaku subtly rubs his jaw to put Tajima’s firebrand scent a little closer to his nose and excuses himself from the bustle of activity—one of the perks of not being one of the actual delegates. The treeline offers softer footing and a well deserved break. The trees themselves are full and dense with spring growth, housing a dappled refuge where he can follow Tajima’s progress without being observed in turn. 

Another flare of purple kitsune fire and Ichariba’s dark form slips off like a shadow to resume her frollicking with a piebald fox. They snarl and snap good naturedly as they tug on the wooden shaft of a naginata between them. But more interesting is the way Tajima’s tail feathers spread wide with interest even as his wings hang half unfurled in threat. 

Senju Butsuma is not a conventionally attractive kitsune—thickly muscled and with a glower too inset to have ever experienced a smile—but Hikaku knows Tajima well enough to understand the draw. There’s a regalness to Butsuma’s bearing and an answering thrum of strength in the number and thickness of his tails. 

Tajima has always enjoyed a challenge, the more dangerous the better. The hell were Indra and Inari thinking to let these two meet?

At least the conversation seems somewhat peaceable from a distance.

Suddenly, a familiar voice rises in anger, drawing his attention back into the forest where a glow like torchlight approaches along the game trail behind him. 

“Shall I seal the bond so you can’t feel the pull?” 

A melodious offer, the meaning of which is lost on Hikaku without context. He keeps his peace, staying still but exposed as the flickering light grows nearer. 

“You will not. They are mine,” Senju Tobirama snarls between clenched teeth in a way that resonates in Hikaku’s bones. He’s a clever thing and more dangerous than the rest of his species in terms of sheer unpredictability. His companion’s pause is a testament to her own understanding of that fact, Hikaku thinks.

However, when she speaks again, it’s not caution flavoring her voice, but concern. “And you recognize the implication of their plumage?” she asks delicately.

It’s then that Hikaku catches sight of the Senju heir and the star he’s brought down from the sky. Whipcords of molten metal crown a face boasting a strong, yet compassionate countenance. Flame accompanies each step, as deep and gold as the wings that arch up from her back like a rising inferno. Even her skin glows with the corona of a sun’s heart. 

A phoenix. With only one ever in existance at a time, seeing a firebird this close is an almost unheard of honor. 

Tobirama spears Hikaku through with a glower and increases the length of his stride to close the gap. 

“I recognize the tengu heirs Uchiha Madara and Uchiha Izuna as my mates and I intend to continue doing so in every way that matters regardless of the opinions of others,” he announces, baritone full and thick with resolve. 

Whether the proclamation is for Hikaku’s benefit or the firebird’s, he doesn’t know. Pretty much everything about the young heir is a mystery to him except what he’s gathered from conversation. Where the tentativeness from earlier went, he can’t begin to say. 

The firebird keeps pace, raising her delicate eyebrows and pursing her lips—red as a forged sword.

“Tobirama, it wasn’t my intention to offend,” she replies quickly, words flowing along the same metronomic beat as her talons. “I only offered in the event you took after your father in that respect. I’m glad to see that your heart is not so guarded.”

“If you are implying that Senju Butsuma is my father, you are mistaken.” Finally, Tobirama comes to a standstill right before Hikaku, of a height and brimming with the anger and confidence of youth. “I only recognize Uchiha Tajima’s patronage.” 

The firebird brightens in ill-concealed surprise just as a resounding slap echoes across the inner courtyard. Jilted lovers, a run-away chick, an interspecies mating among heirs, and a blessed phoenix materializing in their midst. Hikaku resolves to take up drinking if he manages to survive any of this. 

As one, they look to the shrine and the unfolding debacle just under its swooping eaves. Not twenty-four hours, less than a single damned day, and already their clan heads are posturing worse than peacocks. 

“Your cruelty knows no bounds,” Senju Butsuma proclaims, voice traveling through the shocked silence despite not having raised it. Speaking far louder, his tails whip up whirlwinds behind him in their thrashing. Chimes tinkle within Inari’s shrine and leaves billow throughout the courtyard, pelting the side of Hikaku’s face with their tattered stems.

At the center of the gale, Tajima laughs—a melodious, but frightening thing for those who know him. 

“ _ My _ cruelty? Am I not the poor, defenseless tengu wearing the sting of an ally’s handprint on his face? I would say I didn’t see it coming, but that would be in poor taste.” He grins and shifts his weight onto one leg either to appear even more condescending or to free up the other set of talons to slit Butsuma open wide.

There’s been an expectant tension every time they’re under the same stretch of sky since the Uchiha delegation arrived. It’s out of character and makes him wonder what is it about Senju Butsuma that rankles Tajima to the point of dangerous impropriety? From what Hikaku has witnessed or come by second-hand, he’s a taciturn kitsune, more prone to walking away with a scathing last word than inciting unnecessary conflict. In fact, there’s been little mention of the fox in the field of battle for the past few decades at least—one of the reasons Tajima himself had relinquished the role of general to his sons.

None of it makes any sense.

He winces. Well, maybe a bit of sense. 

“The hell are you on about?” Butsuma snaps back, scowling so fiercely his tufted ears shift back along his scalp. 

“You have to ask? Perhaps I’m not the most blind among us,” Tajima quips back with more bite than a gunbai blade. His muscular thighs coil beneath him in preparation of a lunge.

Skies above, Hikaku needs that drink. 

Gathering his chakra close, he steps around Tobirama and fans his wings, beating the air to take flight as quickly as possible. However, before he can achieve lift with one more powerful down stroke, a hand on his shoulder aborts the motion and plants his talons back onto the forest loam.

Mito inhales sharply. “Peace, warrior. I’ll handle these two,” she states, her manner mild. She draws a seal in the air that sets her molten hair to unraveling from its golden hair pins. In an instant, everything stills. The sun grows brighter and the approaching warmth of spring blooms far sooner and more vibrant than it should. Sprouts rise between the flagstones as she swiftly makes her way across the threshold of torii, Ibis-feet spreading wide under her weight.

As soon as Butsuma and Tajima catch sight of her, they both let their whipping chakra die down in increments. The firebird wasn’t exaggerating when she said this confrontation was well within her purview.

Beside Hikaku, Tobirama shifts, discomfited. “I’ll go inform Hashirama that Mito is here.” It’s a pitiful excuse, though Hikaku doesn’t blame him in the least for wanting to avoid whatever fallout is about to occur. Telegraphing his movements, he reaches out to clasp Tobirama on the shoulder, squeezing once in reassurance. “It’s an honor to have you as a clanmate. Be safe,” he states simply, then leaps into the air. 

Chakra catches at his feathers and gives him the lift he can’t quite manage from flapping alone.

Wind buffets his face for less than an instant before he’s slamming down at Tajima’s side, a clatter of talons on stone and the jingling of the flight harness he rarely removes heralding his entry. Mito and the clan heads barely spare him a glance, though Tajima does take the opportunity to recapture the crook of his elbow.

“You’re blind,” Butsuma concludes, voice strangely devoid of any inflection.

The conversation prior is lost on Hikaku, but he would have thought that was rather obvious.

Either not catching the shift in tone or too irate to care, Tajima flaps once and snaps his wings out to showcase every pinion in his impressive arsenal. The red tips of his inner coverts glare angry in the morning light, like blood dripping down a thousand blades.

He rubs his cheek against Hikaku’s shoulder and looks up to him, affecting a look of churlish affront.

“Am I? How awful! For shame, you should have informed me, Hikaku. Here I am trudging through life reliant on the charity of others as a result of an infirmity I was never made aware of. Why, I—”

Flaring brightly, Mito intercedes before things can devolve any further.

“That’s enough. You’ve made your point, Tajima,” she states, brokering no argument. The fire beneath her skin peters out to reveal a fair complexion like any other. Magma bleeds from her hair to be devoured by the thirsty flagstones and, in the span of a heartbeat, her feathers burst into cherry blossoms, scattering throughout the shrine proper. The only traits still proclaiming her yōkai are the ibis feet beneath the hem of her gauzy kimono. Even so, her contained form does little to disguise the steel at her core.

“And now I’ll make mine.”

She lifts her hand and brings it down in a smooth, measured slap right across Butsuma’s cheek. His sun-burnished skin doesn’t showcase the mark. Still, his face snaps to the side, ears whipping under the force of the blow. He says nothing, simply stands frozen where momentum takes him and accepts the rebuke with a pained grimace. 

Hikaku watches the tableau play out, restrained, but ready to intercede. An uneasy twist of expectation curls in his gut. Butsuma may be scruffed, but it’s not like Tajima to stand down after having won first blood, especially not when the rot of disrespect settles into the wound to fester.

He’s a vindictive daitengu at times, and all the more dangerous for it. Fortunately, the people under his protection have only ever known his love—equally as strong and ten times as passionate.

In this instance, though, it would seem the phoenix’s command is more than enough to curb his tendencies.

“All parties are equal; all slights are forgiven,” Mito concludes. “Your sons appear to have figured out the merits of communication. Perhaps you two should as well, hm?” she hums pointedly.

They stand in awkward silence—chastised.

Satisfied, she crosses the gaping divide between Tajima and Butsuma to cup the Senju clan head’s cheek and lift his face to meet her. She goes up onto her toes and plants a chaste kiss on his forehead. For a moment so brief Hikaku must have imagined it, a red sigil glows in the wake of her lips and Butsuma’s eyes flutter as if in relief.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, then looks over her shoulder to meet Tajima’s gaze. He opens his mouth as if to say something further, hesitates, then closes it. Instead, he dips his chin, offers a small bow, and takes his leave without further incident.

It’s only because they’re touching that Hikaku feels the disappointment pulse in Tajima’s chakra. Perhaps he misjudged the situation after all. Rare, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Once again, he considers the merits of getting as intoxicated as Izuna had been last night and wandering out into the forest to make himself fat on the luxury of being the problem for once. 

“Mito, my dear, you look absolutely ravishing. How long has It been?” Tajima rallies admirably while remaining unrelenting in the way he presses against Hikaku’s side. His wings and tail feathers swish back into place.

“One-hundred and one years, yesterday, another century before that, and two more from when you first dared to watch a phoenix hatch. Don’t try to charm your way out of this, Uchiha Tajima, it won’t work.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Tajima twitters as sweet as a songbird. “By the way, congratulations on this new husband of yours. Hashirama’s a lovely thing and his nest etiquette is impeccable. You’ve done absolute  _ wonders _ .”

Mito smiles, one delicate eyebrow arched. “Haven’t I?”

Around them, preparations for the morning meal pick up once more.


	20. Izuna's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shenanigans. lol

“Indra’s balls, how did that thing get even more disgusting overnight? It looks like an owl turd grew legs,” Izuna groans, dragging a palm down his face in the vague hope of wiping away the horror of having functioning eyeballs. “Nii-san, you have to  _ do _ something.”

He’s not exaggerating either, at least not unnecessarily so. While his recall of last night’s dinner might not be the greatest on account of the wine, he’s fairly certain that Kagami’s kodama problem wasn’t quite this much of a debacle. The stupid bird feathers Kagami had pilfered from the centerpieces and attached to the kodama’s arms hadn’t taken root and grown into the simulacra of wings. Its body hadn’t elongated to give it more of a chick’s height.

It’s uncomfortable to look at now and Inari—or whomever else is responsible for the little army of forest spirits here—can kindly fuck off and stay away from his family, thank you very much. Tobirama might leave again if they can’t keep the nest ugly-free and worthy of him.

As if on cue, the hideous thing turns its head half way around its body to pierce Izuna through with that empty, nightmare stare. It winds its chin up and lets loose a chittering diatribe that sets Madara to laughing in great, barking huffs. Traitor. Izuna regrets having accompanied his brother to this hidden pocket of forest sanctum instead of chasing after their new mate.

“The tree spirit isn’t hurting anything. Let Kagami have his fun.”

And now he regrets being  _ born _ .

Whistling like a tea kettle Izuna looks up to the canopy for deliverance only to find nothing but leaves rustling in the still air, speaking amongst themselves in their slow, timeless language. If not for the kodama issue, this would be a lovely place to tarry for the day. Crisp air blankets his feathers and ancient magics pulse under his talons, emanating from a massive series of overgrown ruins. Even the moss carpeting eroded stone walls thrums with a low-grade power—benign and pleasantly sweet. It’s a tranquil paradise, though why they alighted on their chick in this refuge  _ alone _ is a mystery he’ll be grilling Yasei and Gesshi about for days no matter how safe it may seem.

Hashirama’s ghastly leavings-with-legs don’t qualify as supervision.

“You mean I can keep Bobble Head, right? He can nest with us for real now? Please, please, please, Madara-sama!” Kagami asks, eyes growing glassy as he looks up at them. His lip wobbles and Izuna can’t help but to be proud of the clever little manipulator he’s helped raise. Still, parental allowances for that level of cute only go so far and there aren’t enough tears in the world for him to change his stance.

That disgusting kodama is not coming anywhere near his mates or the nest they share, and that’s final.

“Of course Bobble Head can join us. He was a gift from Senju Tobirama, wasn’t he?” Madara says slyly, wrapping an arm around Izuna’s waist and pulling him flush against his side. He smirks down sidelong through the part in his hair, all strong lines and painfully handsome bemusement. “And while he’s there maybe our new clanmate can fix the holes Izuna put in my sheets.”

_ Shit _ . There aren’t enough expletives in existence for how well and truly he’s dug his own grave this time.

Kagami squeals and squawks as he takes Bobble Head’s featureless hands in his own and spins them in joyous little circles. The kodama’s eyes arch as it adds a series of crow hops to their impromptu dance, bursts of rain lilies sprouting in its footsteps.

And because the powers that be must absolutely hate him, Madara takes advantage of Izuna’s stiff, guilt-riddled immobility to card through his inner coverts, capturing a loosened feather. He brings it up to his lips and blows it with just enough force to float down through the center of the chicks’ merriment, followed soon after by one of his own.

They watch the feathers fall and alight in the cup of Bobble Head’s palm.

“Welcome to the clan, Bobble Head,” he intones, leaning close to kiss the sharp downturn at the corner of Izuna’s lips.

Affection and love do little to ease the sheer, indescribable revulsion, and, guilt or no, there’s no way Madara will be allowed to kiss away such a _ heinous _ act. Izuna tries to resist by pushing at Madara’s thick chest for all of two seconds, then buries his fists in his kosode and jerks them flush upon reconsideration. 

He hasn’t been kissed nearly enough in the past two days. The kodama can make a pallet on the floor or something.

Ignoring the way his lungs seize at the vibration of Madara’s surprised groan, Izuna angles his head to capture his lips properly. Their love is an inevitability and every touch feels like coming home. He can’t wait until Tobirama is comfortable enough to be included in their casual reaffirmations of support and belonging.

Even if that means the disgus—even if that means Bobble Head stays.

“From now on be more careful with the space we’ve made for our chicks, Koibito,” Madara murmurs against him. Another kiss follows, slow and consuming for all that it’s no more than the chaste press of lips. Such a lovely warmth, different from Tobirama’s, but just as intoxicating.

Izuna blinks, only belatedly realizing his eyes had slipped shut. “Okay,” he cheeps, chasing one more peck and crooning when it finds a home in his soul. His heart goes warm and soft as if it’s grown too big for his body.

He’ll be careful—he’ll be anything Madara needs.

“See, I told you,” Kagami pipes up, breathless from his enthusiastic dancing. “They love each other, so they kiss and wrestle and stuff. Izuna’s just loud and angry sometimes because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s a softy.” Leaves crunch under his little feet as he flaps his wings in delight.

Bobble Head nods, the glow of its body expanding and receding twice before petering out. When the light settles, Izuna’s pilfered feather has somehow taken root on its left wrist. Madara’s inner covert stands out glaringly obvious next to a hawk’s pinion on its right, dwarfing the bird’s feather in size. It chitters once more and Izuna could almost forgive the thing its existence for the way it makes Kagami laugh.

“Yeah, you’re right. Izuna’s is definitely fluffier!”

On second thought, it has to die. Kagami, too. There’s no other way to avenge himself for the wretched slander that has just been loosed into the universe.

“That’s it, brats, you’re both getting plucked,” Izuna announces, making his tomoe spin for effect. In return, he’s given the gift of a moment in time captured in pristine detail—Kagami’s smile as he takes hold of Bobble Head’s hand and dashes away, all jouncing curls and fathomless joy.

Grinning, Izuna butts his forehead against Madara’s chin until he gets the hint and nuzzles his hair. A ‘softy’. For family, yes. He’s made a life of showcasing his hard edges so that chicks like Kagami don’t have to blood their talons, so that his clan can flock in some semblance of safety. It’s nice to know that any chicks they hatch into the world will hold his hand with smooth, callus-free palms, eyes round and innocent.

There will be a lot more games like this in the future if he has anything to say about it. 

“Go play, Otouto,” Madara suggests, patting his tail feathers.

As if Izuna’s vicious retaliation could be classified as anything of the sort. He laughs, chirping and mirroring his joy in the fluttering of wings. “I’m going to pluck them  _ bald _ ,” he crows, offering one last kiss before pulling away to sprint after the trail of giggles in the near distance.

Old leaves and brittle sticks announce his headlong charge. He could easily gather wind beneath his wings and approach in silence, but where would be the fun in that? Stalking doesn’t offer the same anticipation of Kagami’s faux squeals when he’s run down and inevitably caught.

Izuna adds a piercing war cry to the mix just because he can.

As trees whip past, the air begins to lose some of its chill and shadows grow long in the brightness ahead. Izuna leaps, clacking his way along a long, low stone wall and bursts from the treeline into a massive field of sunlight and tall, wavering stalks of winter wheat. With gold above and gold below, it’s easy to see the twin trails Kagami took through the center.

His wings snap out—pinions glossy and shining as vivid as the sky. Another peal of laughter has his face splitting with the force of his smile. Soon there will be more raucous peeping added to their game, as many song-bird voices as Tobirama is willing to incubate. Their hatchlings are going to be little terrors with wit embedded in their bones and he can’t wait to be thoroughly overwhelmed.

To his left, the field gradually ascends, giving way to a weather-worn outcropping of rock so filled with wildflowers it wavers with all the colors of the rainbow. Yasei sits on the edge of the plateau and points towards something moving in the blanket of grain. Izuna can see Hashirama clap excitedly—all but sprawled in the wildflowers with his hind paws on Yasei’s lap, more like a mountain cat than a fox—but pays him little mind. There’s a chick to trounce and a kodama to throttle.

He lands in a high patch of wheat and eases into a sprint without slowing. Clods of dirt fly up in his wake. The welcome burn of exertion, the unbridled elation burbling in his chest—this is the future he wants for them. Every day.

With lofty dreams as blinders, he fails to note movement in his periphery. Swift streaks of black and white, and red converge near his knees. It only takes a split second for Izuna to feel the first brush of fur against the fronts of his cannons and only a heartbeat after that to realize that the ground shouldn’t be able to surge up like that. He hits the dirt hard, flattening his wings and rolling through the impact on instinct alone.

Attacking him with a chick nearby is an immediate death sentence and one he has no qualms delivering.

He whips around, talons cocked and wings unfurled in overt threat. In the flattened path behind him sits a small creature—half of its body black, the other half white—perfectly at ease with the situation as it licks a bur from its hind foot.

It’s a fox. Not an overgrown lush like the other zenko, but an animal barely out of kithood. Izuna’s rage curdles in the pit of his stomach as the fire lancing through his blood is banked. In the distance, Kagami’s familiar screech is replaced by the hushed whisper of wheat.

“Um, hi,” he says for lack of anything better. His wings jerk once, then quickly slap shut against his back.

“Hello,” the fox yips back in the unmistakable voice of a child. “You have a leg band.”

Izuna glances down at the military band denoting him as a general, second only to Madara. It peeks out from beneath his hakama, but why that’s important to this kit escapes him entirely.

He cocks his head to the side, about to ask, but the words never make it out of his mouth.

“Gesshi used to have a leg band, too. But, Kagami says that the tasseled ones are worth more points,” the kit says.

And that sweet, androgynous voice might be mild, but Izuna knows deep shit when he’s in it. In fact, Tajima’s stupid jess-stealing game might be the deepest shit of all. His muscular thighs coil in preparation of a speedy take-off, one that will rely on sheer strength more than chakra so as not to scare the poor thing.

Not that it looks anything less than collected and confident where it continues to worry at its delicate paw. It spits out the burr, only then glancing up with one white eye, one black, both gleaming with mischief. 

“Get him, Kawa.”

_ Indra’s balls _ . All of the lightning fast reflexes in the world can’t prepare Izuna for the blur of a well-aimed, thirty-pound ball of fur exploding full tilt from the wall of grain to his left. The red streak barrels into the side of his knee, cackling in its comical fox laugh.

Izuna watches the pale dirt approach for the second time in as many minutes, not bothering to do anything about it this time. His wings are too powerful to risk harming the kits, his talons too sharp to do anything but curl in close. Wheat folds under his weight and a rough expulsion of air sets the nearby stalks to wavering as he slams down, the rising dust cloud making his eyes water. The ache is a full body experience, not unlike pulling up too late and belly flopping into a cliff face.

Not that he would know.

And it’s funny, the fact that he’s being taken down by children doesn’t even phase him—it’s not like this is the first time—but he does find his feathers ruffling at the thought that these little ones are allowed to run around without a hen to cluck over them. Not every yōkai they hunt will be so forgiving as him. Obviously there’s only one option.

“Alright, you got me. I’m defeated. Vanquished! Now where the hell are your parents? You obviously don’t have enough,” he wheezes, groaning for dramatic effect.

Hot breath on his ankle precludes the gentle nip of teeth around his jess fasteners.

“How do you two feel about nesting? Ah, what am I saying, everybody loves Nii-san’s nests. Like sleeping on a cloud unless you accidentally stick your claws in it, then you get the floor. We’ll just keep them trimmed and you’ll be fine.” They’ll need to expand the aerie, of course. It will have to be renovated anyways considering the sheer size of the family they’re going to be raising together. This just pushes the time frame up by a year or so.

“Do you both have names, or only the one? I’m not letting Kagami pick this time; he’s awful at it.”

Case in point, a celestial forest spirit dubbed ‘Bobble Head’.

Four concentrations of weight pounce onto the space between his wings and Izuna squawks when his ponytail is unceremoniously yanked, not unlike when Kagami used to think his bangs were worms. 

“You talk a lot,” the black and white kit mutters through its teeth, lying down to champ at the silky rope of hair. It’s going to be well beyond the abilities of a dust bath to clean and Izuna can’t find it in himself to care. Succumbing to the inevitable, he flops to the ground, boneless against the terrible assault on his person.

Kawa is having too much trouble with his jess to warrant even a token resistance like he would for the chicks of the aerie. 

“I do not,” he shoots back with faux petulance.

“You do,” Madara announces as he steps over a rocky patch of ground right in front of Izuna’s face, materializing more suddenly than a yūrei. His wings expand and contract in ill-concealed amusement. “I’m told it’s supposed to be endearing.”

The kits startle, yipping as they leap from Izuna’s back. The two tone one arcs off across the field in a burst of whirling blue fire while Kawa freezes, sinking down to the ground and wrapping his bushy tail around his body. A brown nose pokes out from beneath sunset fluff. With each tremulous whine, Izuna’s convictions are cemented. 

He sits up slowly, turns towards his brother, and spreads his tail feathers over top of the kit to give him a place to hide.

“Nii-san, first off, everything about me is amazing. Second, you should know we have a couple of kits now and I’ll figure out their names here shortly.”

There. Concise and to the point. Who says he talks too much?

Madara groans, scrubbing his face against his palms viciously enough that Izuna can smell the friction burn from here.

“Damn it, Izuna. You can’t just go around—” he sputters, pulling at his hair and, when that doesn’t offer any answers, throws it behind his shoulder in a haphazard heap, “—you’re so like Tousan it hurts.”

“You take that back!”

“We can’t go around adopting everything under the age of ten,” Madara retorts, because he obviously excels when it comes to hypocrisy. Self-reflection, your name is not ‘Uchiha Madara’.

“I’m not ten, I’m eleven and a half!” Izuna’s tail feathers protest, going back to being eerily silent following the outburst.

In an instant Madara’s carefully crafted disapproval shatters; he laughs—raspy chuckles growing into a deep, full-bodied guffaw—and the sound is so charming Izuna thinks he can forgive the comparison to their father even without kisses this time. 

Besotted, Izuna pats the rounded ball of fox distorting the vanes of his tail feathers and croons in a way he found made Tobirama melt against him last night. What equates to a bawdy pigeon shanty works its strange magic again, easing the tension enough that Kawa’s ears begin to poke up through his feathers—two triangular tufts of red in a black spread.

“Come on out, kit,” he coaxes. “Don’t let my mate fool you, he’s as sweet as a chickadee and you still have points to score, right? You caught me fair and square so I guess you won my jess.”

The offer of game points is a potent motivator. Wriggling, the kit pops his head up through Izuna’s tail, which—while certainly not the most comfortable angle for his poor feathers—makes for a pretty adorable picture of childish innocence.

Madara’s laughter sobers, but there’s Amaterasu’s gift in his smile.

“I’m Kawarama,” the kit yaps with newfound courage, “and I’m not a kit. I’m eleven  _ and a half _ .” He reiterates, stressing the ‘half’ as if it makes all the difference between being flight ready and still wearing bits of egg shell.

In their improvised scuffle, Izuna made sure his belly was down to keep his talons out of play and, as such, wasn’t able to get a great impression of Kawarama other than the fact that he was small with fur that shifted through the warmer color spectrum.

Now that he can drink his fill, he finds his soul reaching out. The kit’s face is small for his age, with a single large, luminous eye as gold as the grain around them. Across his other is a stylized eye-patch with a story Izuna doesn’t want to know for fear of how he would react. The tufted ears suggest fire-rat heritage even as his confirmation screams zenko through and through. A young thing of mixed heritage in the company of the Senju’s main line…

“You’re Tobirama’s half-brother,” he says in sudden realization.

Kawarama’s large ears perk forward, tassels waving with the motion. “Yeah, that’s why I smell like him. So do you, so you’re safe.” Pausing, he cocks his vulpine head to glance up at Madara with his good eye. “Do you know Aniki?” he asks, curiosity overriding his timidity.

Madara crouches down on his haunches and holds his hand aloft to be scented, wings tucked to make himself as small as possible. “He’s our mate,” he answers simply.

And the affirmation is nothing if not a balm for Izuna’s soul. Hearing those words aloud drives home the fact that this is real—no genjutsu rebound or fever-induced hallucination. They have a third, a mate more precious than any other, with fire in his veins and untapped passion raging just beneath the surface. Bonding with this kit is like learning a part of Tobirama’s life, exactly what Madara said they would work on to keep him coming back to their nest—to cement their family. 

There’s a been a pull under Izuna’s breastbone not unlike home sickness ever since they parted this morning and it pulses stronger yet.

Finally, Kawarama slinks out from under Izuna’s tail feathers, flanking his side to stretch his neck out and sniff tentatively at Madara’s knuckles. 

“You smell  _ a lot _ like Aniki! You weren’t lying,” Kawarama yaps, brightening both figuratively and literally. If not for his own hot-blooded nature, Izuna would probably be nursing a fox-shaped burn along his hip.

“I’m Uchiha Madara. Uchiha Izuna, who you’ve obviously met, is my brother and mate. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Senju Kawarama,” Madara introduces them formally, because at least one of them has to have social graces on occasion. Flattening his palm, he strokes a fluffy cheek, snorting when his hand is promptly filled with the kit’s entire head.

“Hi,” Kawarama chirps back. “I’ve got brothers, too! There’s Hashi. I mean, Hashirama—he’s really nice and takes us places sometimes—and Tobirama, and Itama, too.”

Itama, the black and white kitsune with dual chakra natures—nogitsune and zenko clashing at his midline with such polarity a single tail sprouted for each bloodline. They’re both Butsuma’s adopted charges, but maybe Tajima can convince him to let Madara and Izuna borrow them for a short while. 

Maybe a century or so. 

However, the sweet, far-fetched imagining is cut short by a huge burst of chakra coming in fast.

Madara’s chin snaps up, sharingan swirling in an instant, tension making his pinions spread to encompass them all. Bright and verdant as Hashirama’s signature typically feels, this is the insurmountable strength of forest shadow and strangle vine. Driven by protective rage or no, Izuna realizes just how outmatched he had been yesterday.

Even Tajima would be tested taking down that much raw power. 

The vegetation whips—wild and alive—germinating, growing tall, and rotting back into the soil in rapid succession. Not a heartbeat later Hashirama tears along their narrow path, coming to a standstill with one paw comically upraised even as his momentum carries the wind past in a gale.

Madara’s familiar blue inferno creates a wedge to split the ridiculous stream of power, cloistering them within the ribcage of some massive beast. It bursts into smoke as soon as the danger has passed and hisses back into the ether from which it was summoned.

Bedding, holy cosmic power, the promise of a future—Madara never fails to pull something into impossible existence, Izuna thinks.

“Oh!” Hashirama yaps, cheeks growing dark. “Sorry about that. Itama said someone scary snuck up on him and kitnapped Kawa. I guess it was just you guys,” He scratches the back of his head and laughs to the sky, every iota of dark intent receding beneath a flood of wildflowers at his feet. Long hair spills across broad shoulders, no longer snaking out to scent prey.

As soon as the tension drops, Itama lopes right up on his heels and squints around his brother’s hakama as if Madara is the suspect one here and not the terrifying tree bastard himself.

“This is great! Now that you’re here we can all go eat,” Hashirama continues, looking this way and that, swirling in place as his tails follow the motion. “Hey, wait, where did Kagami run off to?”

And as much shit as Izuna gives Kagami for his gross new addition, the only thing keeping him from punting the thing off of a cliff outright is the added layer of protection it affords his impulsive Eggshell. At the very least there’s another set of eyes on him at all times, even if they’re Hashirama’s—their mate’s brother he has to continually remind himself. Yōkai wouldn’t dare assault a forest spirit’s charge.

Izuna, of course, is an outlier, though he admits even his attack would have been the softest of kicks. A nudge, really. A calm, gentle suggestion towards the edge of a sheer precipice.

“You gave Kagami one of your kodama and you still don’t know where he is,” Madara says, voice low and without inflection. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, bracing breath in an attempt to bank the explosion that Izuna knows is simmering just under the surface.

“Uh, Tobi gave him one of the weird ones. I can’t…well, you know.”

Izuna cocks his head to better watch Hashirama’s facial gymnastics.

It’s hypnotizing, so much so that Itama takes the chance to slink along the ground while he’s distracted, dirt brushing his two-toned belly as he advances and retreats repeatedly, intent on scenting Izuna’s knee. Having slept wrapped up in Tobirama wins him the same easy acceptance as Kawarama and his lap is suddenly filled with a wriggling kit, spinning in place and lapping furiously at his chin. Izuna pats whatever furry bit is under his hand at any given moment, still trying to predict how Madara plans to destroy Hashirama. Evisceration has good odds. Bludgeoning is a close second. 

“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you explain it,” Madara replies.

Finally, Hashirama settles on a pout, cheeks darkening even as his shoulders and tails droop.

“Sometimes a kodama pops up that I can’t talk to, like, in my head? They usually go away after a little while, but this one just,” he whines, ears pulling flat against his head, “it just hangs out with the rest of them and now it’s all big and I have no clue what’s going on.” He runs out of breath before digging the hole any deeper, sucking in a great gasping lungful by the end of it.

If Madara wasn’t such a phenomenal sensor and already locked onto Kagami’s location, the wheat would be stained red and the hungry ground sated regardless of the little eyes watching. As much as his Nii-san likes to pretend he’s in control, he’s every bit as over-protective as Izuna, and the world’s most perfect mate. 

“So you’re admitting that you haven’t been watching my chick. Where the hell are Yasei and Gesshi?”

All of the gathering blush leaves Hashirama’s face in a rush as he blanches, mouth dropping. Amazing how much like a fish one floundering fox can be.

“I know that!” Itama pipes up between leaping from one of Izuna’s shoulders to the other and pouncing down to resume shredding the ends of his obi. “ I froze the dumb one and took his leg band. It’s not worth as many point as the loud one’s, though,” he mutters through a mouthful of wet silk, “so Kawa’s winning.”

Ears swiveling towards his name, Kawarama bounds over in two hops as he abandons Madara’s tail feathers in favor of snapping at Izuna’s ponytail again. The accompanying growl when his teeth catch is one of the cutest things Izuna has ever heard.

“And Kagami’s in last place because he cheated and had Bobble Head tie Gesshi up with roots!” he announces through his teeth, grunting with the effort of yanking.

The burn in Izuna’s cheeks only deepens as his grin grows. It’s definitely going to be evisceration. 

“Well, kits, I have a secret for you. My jess is worth even more than Izuna’s,” Madara replies, affecting a small smile for them both even as his chakra seethes. 

Jesses of rank are based more on visibility than the number of tassels as Kagami seems to have taught them—a lure characterized by color and motion, daring and challenge. Madara’s blares even brighter as he kneels down to unlace the stiff leather bracer and ease it free from his lower leg.

He crow hops a pace, still crouched low, and proceeds to tie it around Hashirama’s ankle with alacrity, taking advantage of his prey’s confusion. “I bet if you can work together to get this one you’ll earn enough points for my brother and I to take you on a flight around the mountain.”

“ _ Really _ ?” the kits yelp in unison. 

And oh.  _ Oh _ . That’s insidious and far worse a fate than death by Madara’s talons. Izuna near vibrates with anticipation as the pressure on his ponytail abruptly gives.

Their walk back to the shrine is serenaded by the tenor accompaniment of Hashirama’s screams in the near distance, Madara’s hand free of blood, but still warm with retribution in his own. The only thing that could make the moment more satisfying would be having his fingers interlaced with Tobirama’s in tandem. 


	21. Tajima's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the person who commented about sandwiches...this was my absolute favorite comment of all time. Thank you so much. <3

Breakfast is an unusual affair, slightly off-putting in that the spread consists of miso soup and assorted bone broths with no substance for apex predators. There’s certainly nothing to bite in these lacquered yotsuwan, no fatty strips of meat to relish or fish so tender it flakes on the tongue. And there are certainly nowhere near enough chilled and fermented peaches to go around. Still, the pleasantness of the company accommodates for the slight.

With Hikaku shooed away, the rest of their retinue absent, and no audience to perform for, Tajima takes the opportunity to quietly observe. 

Torii, Inari’s stone kitsune guardians, and the sweeping curves of the inner shrine itself collect the ebb and flow of conversation into the acoustic version of an embrace. A gentle brush of silk against his knees tells him that the table coverings have been changed, but not the orientation, inviting familiarity and a sense of belonging. Whomever designed this outdoor event was far more clever than a simple laborer. 

There’s an inherent notion of peace in the workings of it all. 

Tajima unravels a thin skein of chakra and snakes it through the tatami mats to take stock of the assembled kitsune, only accidentally tweaking the tips of Butsuma’s tails along the way. When his goading fails to elicit a reaction, he meanders further to settle on a phoenix-bright knee. Mito continues to listen amicably to the kitsune elders around her, her delicate hand resting on the back of Butsuma’s much larger wrist. Even distracted, her chakra unfurls in answer to Tajima and rebuffs him with good humor. 

Like a balm on their collective souls, her presence is a gift as always.

He lifts his bowl to bury the softness of his smile into it.

Such a lovely phoenix; she’s rather tetchier in this lifetime, a bit quicker to get that magma blood flowing in the same push as a volcanic vent, but she’s still young yet. Give it another few centuries and she’ll be as unflappable as Tajima recalls from back when he himself was too young to have any sense.

He can still feel the heat of her rebirth on his face and some nights he can even recall the blinding afterimage. There’s only ever one firebird in existence at any given time, and even then it requires an opportunity for momentous change in the fate lines. His sight was a fair price to pay for having witnessed the birth of a legend.

The kami had walked the earth that night in celebration. Inari gamboled across paddies with nary a ripple and swayed through the tips of wavering grain, leaving bounty in their wake. Even Indra’s rare laughter filled the glade, shattering the temple that had once stood in his honor on this very mountain and dashing it to ruins in his wild joy. They had danced together in the light of Amaterasu until Tajima’s heart called out with the intensity of it all in a tune so sweet even the gods took note. Newly blinded and with the blood of a dozen egg stealers on his talons, that night Tajima discovered what it meant to dream. To  _ see _ in the only way that mattered.

A moonlight kiss to each temple and a fox’s favor bestowed upon his brow would prove to be gifts beyond measure, offered as recompense for his daring, for the soul he bared in his song and the truths he saw in himself. 

That melody would go on to serve as a lullaby for the chicks he never thought he would have, gifts from the divine, even if their father turned out to be intended for someone else. A shame. Though, it would have been ungracious to ask the kami for more when his sons are all he ever needed. 

“What the hell happened to your face?” Izuna squawks as he flings himself down on the tatami mat at Tajima’s side, Kagami wriggling upside-down under his arm and angrily cheeping something about being the ‘meanest tengu ever’. 

Madara sweeps towards his other side not a moment later with a fox kit curled around his neck, another standing precariously balanced on the wing joints between his shoulders, and a fully grown kitsune heir bent double and sobbing into his waist.

“Don’t ask,” he grunts, slapping ineffectually at the back of Hashirama’s head.

Ah, truly, gifts from the divine.

Fortunately, it’s neither the hardest nor the most audacious assault on a dignitary to happen in the past hour. Another flurry of vitriol and Hashirama finally falls still enough for Madara to shift his attention toward his brother’s continued shrieking without risk of being bowled over. 

“Tousan...who did you piss off this time?” he sighs.

Tajima takes a long, loud sip of his soup and thoughtfully chews on a piece of seaweed. 

“I am but a sweet, innocent songbird. I could never incite anyone towards violence, and I resent the implication,” he chirps, returning to take another deep draught in punctuation. “To answer your question, Izuna, my dear, misguided son, this face was molded by the palms of a tennyo and still bears their heavenly handprint. I’m glad you can finally appreciate my radiant beauty for the gift it is. Good chick.” 

And because he now has a third son to match wits against, Tobirama appears out of the ether to test him further. “Interesting. It bears a striking resemblance to a slap,” he states in that calm, cool baritone that gives everything he says teeth.

Such a shame the kit still has his grace period and is thereby deserving of a touch more truth. Gorgeous, cunning little bastards the lot of them. Their chicks are going to be absolutely  _ hellacious _ .

Tajima widens his eyes and sets his bowl down, clutching at his cheeks. “Oh,  _ that _ . Ah, well, there was a slight misunderstanding. I might have insinuated that Senju Butsuma had the parenting skill of a nigawarai and a face to match. Perhaps I stated it outright. With my aged memory, who’s to know?”

“You said  _ what _ ?” Madara hisses so close to Tajima’s ear that his bangs sway with it. 

The dramatism is entirely unnecessary. Tajima pats what he expects to be the small of Madara’s back, but turns out to be a muscular forearm instead. With his chicks’ wailing supplanting Hashirama’s he had thought the kitsune gone. He clears his throat. 

“I’ll admit, it wasn’t my finest moment. That was just what came to mind. Had I the time or the inclination, I’m sure I would have come up with something much more scathing.” 

Chakra flares further down the table, its angry thrashing returning to placidity in an instant. A struck nerve, then. 

“Tousan, you’re over six-hundred years old. You shouldn’t have to be looked after all the time.”

“Worse than a fledgling!” Izuna carries on, never afraid to voice his opinions. Loudly.

“Fortunately, a perk of being both older and head of this clan is that I need neither your permission nor approval to act as I please,” Tajima singsongs in return, patting Izuna’s back in consolation for another joust lost. He leans over to invite Tobirama to try his hand at riposting where his boys have failed, only to have the words curdle in his mouth. 

The broth bowls are small. They’re meant for moderate portions to be consumed with care, not to house the complete lower half of a yokai’s face. The heady rush of victory peters out as quickly as it had come.

Tobirama had forgone dinner the night before and any other public meal Tajima can recall throughout the time they’ve been here. He eats like...well, a fox, no training in decorum or even the most basic expectations of his humanoid body. Tajima blinks slowly. It takes a power greater than his own to ease the resounding war gongs between his ears back into dormancy.    
  


“Tobirama!” Tajima exclaims, voice loud enough to jolt the kit upright and away from any further faux pas. “Have you instructed my less favorite sons in the minutia of kitsune mating rituals yet? They’re intelligent boys, but woefully slow learners in any topic regarding cultural sensitivity. They’ll be in desperate need of your tutelage, I assure you.” 

The ambient buzz of conversation around them wanes, replaced by a dozen curious sets of fox eyes. 

“Why would I instruct them in something I’m not familiar with?” Tobirama asks with uncharacteristic care, cocking his head to catch a drop of broth as it rolls down his cheek. There’s hesitation there and the pressure of a storm front gathering further along the table. 

“ _ You wouldn’t _ ,” Butsuma barks with such vitriol it gives the elders around him pause. Not even Mito’s subtly shifting seal-work is enough to reel in the sudden flare of anger. His chakra is a potent thing, vast and earthy, brimming with the power of the old gods as it builds. “Our ways aren’t for outsiders and courting is a worthless skill in the hands of tengu,” he continues, fingers clawing runs in the table coverings obvious enough to feel in the pull under Tajima’s wrists.

He ignores the instinct to fan his feathers and instead circles a red-lacquered talon around the rim of his shifted tea cup to tug it back to him. He gathers a spilt drop and brings it to his lips, fluttering his eyes coquettishly.

“You once found tengu hands to be quite skilled as I recall, Sweetling. A pity memory is failing you as well in your old age,” he shoots back. Of course Senju Butsuma, that prickly bastard, would balk at the thought of yōkai coming together regardless of circumstance or species—would grow angry with the evidence of his son’s abandonment laid bare. Turnabout is fair play, after all.

Butsuma can only sputter, finally snapping his mouth shut as Mito leans in close enough to rest her head on his shoulder. Tajima could joust for hours with this miserable excuse of a fox just to watch how deep the heat in his cheeks can go against the backdrop of Mito’s fire-bright glow. 

Arresting creature.

“Peace between us isn’t a mistake, but allowing you into my home was. You should go,” Butsuma finally intones, voice growing calmer and more articulate with each word. 

And oh, if that’s not an opening, nothing is, even if the unexpected sting hits as sharp as a senbon. However, before Tajima can push the limits any further, there’s a queer shift in the atmosphere surrounding Tobirama as he squirms under the guise of shifting his knees. Tajima can’t see what has changed, only feels a sudden bloom of power in his adopted son’s chakra and hears Hashirama’s sharp intake, muffled by Madara’s haori. 

“Tobi! Look at your—” he begins, only to be cut off with a stern, red-eyed glare. 

Tobirama’s jaw jumps as he grinds his teeth, nostrils flaring. Even so, there’s gentle reassurance in the hand he sets on Izuna’s thigh below the table line. Tajima can hear the rustle of fabric as they lace their fingers together. 

“Not now, Anija,” Tobirama orders. 

He doesn’t shift in his seat, but his chakra gives the impression of directing his next words down the table. “You forget, this mountain is my domain and I alone determine who is or is not welcome,” he announces coldly. Only then does he lean to look past Izuna’s besotted ogling and make eye-contact with Tajima—not that meeting a blind man’s gaze truly matters, but he appreciates the deliberate show of respect. 

Even knowing there is no love lost between Tobirama and his sire, Tajima had thought there would at least still be some sort of lingering deference. An obvious miscalculation.

“This is not how I had planned to present the nature of our bond to my clan, Uchiah Tajima-sama.”

Tajima tilts his chin down in acknowledgement and hides a wry grin behind his bangs, appropriately chastised. Another trip wire he’s failed to navigate with his most delicate son. He can’t recall being so clumsy in matters of heart or state since he was a fledgling pulling petals off of flowers on his father’s knee. If anyone is to blame, it’s the raging whirlwind of zenko prowess filling his thoughts and clouding his judgment from three paces away.

Still, he should have been more stalwart in his constitution—gentler in his approach. 

“I will expect better of you when introduced to the remainder of the  _ Uchiha _ ,” Tobirama concludes. With that, he picks up his soup bowl in perfect imitation of those around him and takes an inelegant, but more appropriate sip.

Such a clever young fox—his cunning strikes unexpectedly and with all the mercy of a bladed flail.

The hushed conversation between zenko dies as the elders turn as one to their clan head. Butsuma looks down into his bone broth, holding the bowl steady between his palms, as unmoving as a statue. His silence is telling. 

Tajima is powerless against the laugh that starts small and erupts into full-bodied guffaws. The kits half dozing on Madara’s lap yelp and dismount in a hurry to dash off down the line of elders at the raucous cawing. Hashirama finally sits up, looking to his mate, then back. For all that his expression remains deliberately placid, his aura wavers with something like joy bated by melancholy. It’s peculiar and one of the more honest emotions he’s worn today. A mystery for another time. 

“Son, you have my word,” Tajima twitters once he’s sober enough to speak again. “Though Yasei and Gesshi hardly count, I believe an apology is in order.” His even-tempered guards ignore the slight in favor of corralling Kagami and his pale shadow between them across the table. Like Hikaku, they’re cut from a stronger cloth than most.

He lowers the wrists of his wings to the ground for three heartbeats and folds them against his back once more, delighted to note Tobirama’s interest. That lightning-fast mind has likely already catalogued the behavior with its associated meaning. Running a hand through his hair, Tajima allows it to swing back over one side of his face and makes to get up, willing to be gracious in his victory.

“I’m certain my chicks have been too caught up in exploring a gift of far greater delight than those we brought for you as the guardian of this wondrous shrine. Even so, you deserve to be honored to the fullest extent. Would you allow me to present them to you in order to ameliorate any offense my misstep may have caused?”

While Tajima is no stranger to formal speeches, he thinks this is probably one of his less contrived. The feather tucked within folds of a pilfered courting haori is testament to the fact that he cares for this fiery fox his chicks have been lucky enough to find. Tobirama is his son in name and will soon carve out a home in his heart as well. He’s certain of it. 

“I would be happy to leave this place,” Tobirama replies, purposefully vague. “The crate has been relocated to the lower levels of the shrine. We can go there now.” His tails swipe the ground as he rocks up onto his paws and only then can Tajima observe where the space behind him is occupied by the way the dirt shifts along the flagstones. Three tails. One he can sense and two others made out of the same damn magic Madara and Izuna use for their little privacy parties. 

No wonder Butsuma and the elders fell silent. They didn’t know.

In one fell swoop Tobirama has managed to cement the peace between their species while distancing himself from his father’s command. It’s a masterful maneuver. The slight tremble in his haunches is the only thing to belie his unwavering confidence. He’s a study in extremes—shy and skittish one moment, challenging his clan head and the order of the world the next. Madara and Izuna will never want for excitement, that much is certain.

“Kagami, stay here. We’ll be back,” Madara begins, only for Hashirama to capture him with an arm around the shoulders. 

He laughs goodnaturedly, even if it comes out a little forced. “I think maybe you should stay. Your brother, too. You guys met the family and everything, but you haven’t met my mate! She’s the greatest, you have no idea. And I’d love to hear how long you’ve all known about this.” 

Good. Their presence will keep Butsuma in line and Hashirama will be able to interrogate and threaten in his capacity as steward to his heart’s content. Checks and balances. 

“Shall we?” Fluffing the feathers along the back of his neck, Tajima gracefully takes Tobirama’s hand in his elbow this time and leads them away through the first set of torii. Offended squawking rises up behind them, quickly subsumed by the forest and its muted song of regrowth.

Wind whispers through the torii columns and gentles the sharp clack of his talons, steps heavy in their descent down the mountainside. It’s a beautiful place—thick with sunshine and the scent of spring. Loathe to broach the tranquility, he keeps his thoughts contained and allows them to keep quiet company until Tobirama chooses to engage. 

How many centuries has it been since he’s been allowed to exist without expectation?

He recalls the colors of this divine mountain from what feels like another lifetime. Towering columns give way to a stretch of sky so blue it snakes through the canopy as stark as the Naka. A river of sky above, the ever flowing path of time below—his soul sings with the panoply of color where once it would have balked at the swaths of red in his wake.

While no longer visible, the beauty of it all still moves him. 

“Why do you insist on enraging Senju Butsuma?” Tobirama finally asks, walking with the softest of patters a pace behind. His hand rests loosely against the crook of Tajima’s elbow, though his fingers remain locked tight in extension.

Tajima flicks him with a wing tip, pointedly ignoring the flinch. “Morbid curiosity? That bastard is a force of nature and I’ve never known him to back down when brute force is so much more effective. I find it odd that he won’t come at me with teeth,” he admits, only half a lie. 

Another series of loud shrieks in the distance causes a hitch in his step, but he recovers almost immediately. That was Izuna’s faked affront. Nothing of concern.

“You signed a peace accord,” Tobirama points out dryly.

True.

“I’m not implying intent to kill, only a little show of spine. But our rivalry is of little interest, I assure you,” Tajima sighs, brushing the topic aside with a casual flick of his wrist. “More importantly, tengu hold children more dear than anything. We would forsake all personal endeavors to see them happy and hale. Butsuma lost the right to my civility the moment he abandoned his love of you.” 

There, that’s the full truth of it. Mostly. It will take all of Madara and Izuna’s commitment to heal the mistrust so apparent in Tobirama’s heart. They’ve already come a long way in such a short time, aided by the draw of an acknowledged soul-bond, but there’s quite a bit further to go. 

At the very least they have divine assurance that their love will be realized in time. 

Tajima reaches into his kosode to finger open the clasp of the small pouch he keeps strapped to his chest. He retrieves its contents where Tobirama can’t see it and turns the stone over in his palm, the well-memorized texture drawing forth a subtle longing he thought he had long since buried. It’s a beautiful thing, perhaps rather lumpish and unrefined to those who can only see with their eyes, but a relic of nights spent in good company and shared dreams of peace. He closes his eyes, no longer bothering to pretend he needs them, and molds his chakra around it—the smooth embrace of healing, forgiveness, and so many things that he should apologize for, but can’t.

This small cluster of aragonite is even more apt today than it ever was. 

It needs to be wrapped in silver, he thinks. Indra’s own element to fill the crevasses left in both stone and soul. Not that he’ll ever gift the finished product properly, but he’s always found pleasure in planning its construction. Perhaps this is the time to bring his century-long vision to its natural conclusion and in so doing pass along the embers of wisdom he gained through failure.

His sons’ love is going to be the sun, so bright it burns. And he will be their moon, reflecting that light back in an effort to never let them forget what a gift they have in each other. His chest aches with the binding of his personal vow. 

“Tajima?” Tobirama calls again. 

Tajima flinches, only now processing the increasing tension in his name as it grows in volume. The strange amalgamation of water and fire chakra grows white capped around his shoulder where Tobirama’s hand hovers but doesn’t fall.

“Hm?” he hums, “I apologize, it would appear I’m of an age where my hearing is degenerating as well. Soon I’ll be no more than a decrepit old biddy with my pinions clipped for my own safety. ” He shoots a wry, self-deprecating huff of laughter over his shoulder and uncurls his stiff fingers from where they had fisted around the proof of a broken promise.

No matter. Tobirama—the exact same age as his boys—is proof enough that it wasn’t a promise worth keeping.

He resolves to focus more intently on the present.

“Hardly. Madara claims that tengu live nearly as long as kitsune. If that is the case, you’re not even middle-aged and your proclamation of ‘decrepitness’ is paltry at best,” Tobirama states, not bothering to curb his sharp tongue in the least. 

And Indra preserve him, Tajima’s used to being wheedled and whined at for his games, but rarely called out so directly. Madara and Izuna have enough tact not to ruin his fun except in rare instances and the rest of the flock have functioning survival instincts.

This kit is such a glorious asshole and a genuine gift to their family. Izuna’s ego will finally be bullied down into something small enough to fit into one tengu-sized package. 

Tajima grins. “Oh, son, you’re going to fit in just fine,” he cheeps, sweeping in to loop his arm around Tobirama’s waist instead. His kit goes rigid under the casual show of affection—muscle bunching tight against his side. It won’t be long before time spent in Izuna’s company breaks him of the habit. For all that his chick is a consummate songbird, he should have been born a limpet with the incessant clinging.

Madara is no better despite his insistence to the contrary.

“Now come along, what were you saying?” he presses, wings unfurling out behind them.

Tobirama doesn’t miss a beat.

“I asked if this importance tengu place on lineage is the reason Izuna keeps mentioning eggs,” he repeats, ears swiveling to keep pace with a bird in the canopy. “Hashirama’s parentage was more doting than instructive, particularly in the realm of courtship, but from what I’ve observed, the forest animals find it conducive to chase each other around and fuck without more than a token display of prowess when offspring is a primary motivator. Yet for all they speak of family, Madara and Izuna were quick to rebuff my sexual advances in favor of chasing emotional comfort instead.” 

And in that moment, Uchiha Tajima is fortunate he has a firm grip to prevent himself from tripping over his own talons.

_ Indra’s balls _ .

“I—” Words fail him. It’s a near thing that he manages to keep his expression placid and his shoulders lax. Fortunately the kit has no idea how to translate the meaning in his rasping feathers. He takes in a deep breath of crisp forest air laced with Tobirama’s unique star dust scent. “Right. Of course they did.” 


	22. Tobirama's POV

“Tengu bonding rites tend to be a bit more complex than how animals approach matters of courtship and breeding,” Tajima wheezes.

Tobirama ruthlessly squashes the instinct to break free of the half-embrace in favor of following this impromptu lesson in whom not to disturb in the morning to its completion. He distracts himself from the discomfort by looking back at Tajima’s wings. They’re as broad as Madara’s with a sharpness at the wrist that speaks to maneuverability with no cost to power. Amusing how everything about this tengu advertises the danger of him, but not the underlying mercy, the limits of which Tobirama is keen to find out.

“How so? Are your genitalia so different?” he prods. “Or perhaps the method of tengu copulation doesn’t require the same effort. Tell me, can you conceive through kissing alone?”

Inhaling deeply, Tajima readies himself for an explanation that promises to be excruciating for all parties involved and Tobirama can hear the way his heart begins to pump harder. Feathers rustle in that telltale sign of surprise and burgeoning discomfort that Izuna so often displays around Hashirama.

“I don’t even—” he begins, words rapidly devolving into a staccato series of clicks. Finally, he bears down on the seemingly unintentional sound. “ _ Where the hell is Hikaku _ ?”

The inherent prudishness of tengu will forever be a point of interest, even if this one in particular is more forward-thinking than the others in their retinue. Perhaps Tobirama can be generous in this instance and show a little mercy to the father of his mates—his father, now—he thinks.

But only a little.

“And now I have appropriate recompense for having my rest disturbed this morning,” he states, unable to fight the beginnings of a smirk as Tajima’s arm falls away from his waist.

“You absolute  _ wretch _ !” Tajima squawks in what looks like indignation but feels like approval. His wings arch wide, housing them in their shadow and flap powerfully enough to bring down a rainfall of leaves. “And to think I offered you time to adapt to our ways before having to face the full volley of my wrath. No longer, Uchiha Tobirama! You shall be held accountable for your crimes beginning today and accept the punishment that is your due.”

The threat is paltry at best, but the altered surname pierces Tobirama through with the blunt force of a stave and pins him to the spot just the same. Any prior amusement shatters near instantaneously to be replaced by something far more familiar. It’s only by the grace of his surprise and a sudden surge of fear that Tajima is able to capture his face between rough, battle-torn palms—not the fear of the tengu clan head himself, but of the implications of such easy approval.

Acceptance shouldn’t be so simple or freely given. If it was, why has Tobirama spent his lifetime up until this point battling tooth and claw to garner even a taste for himself? Why is it that in the span of two days’ time he’s managed to earn the loyalty of a clan when it took a hundred years and blood ties just to keep Hashirama by his side half the year?

In his distraction, the strength of a yōkai born to it pulls him down the scant distance to bring Tajima’s lips to bear between his brows. They’re a weapon Tobirama has no defense against, so he takes the show of affection and the gaping wound it tears into him along with it. Warmth flows from those three points of contact to coalesce beneath his eyelids.

It’s strange to feel so much from something so seemingly benign.

“I will endeavor to serve my sentence with honor,” he says, moved to the point his voice thickens with it.

Clearly sensing the shift in tone, Tajima shifts and strokes his talons through Tobirama’s hair, gentle on his scalp and careful to skirt his ears. 

“Good,” he declares, “then I won’t have to upset Madara’s nest in pursuit.” Another chaste kiss and he pulls back just enough to touch their foreheads together for an instant, there and gone before Tobirama can react. 

“First the mushroom debacle, now this. I suppose I’m losing my edge,” he rails, marching off ahead and stomping the ground with flat feet to slow his pace.

The ploy is obvious and appreciated. It gives Tobirama the opportunity to collect himself.

“Now come along, there are more important things to be doing than harassing your elders. For instance, you inquired about eggs, correct? Would you like an honest answer or were you simply pulling my tail feathers again?”

Tobirama cocks his head and sets his ears back. As if a mature kitsune would ever do something so crass as touching a tail uninvited. A strange turn of phrase to be sure and one that aborts his darkening thoughts with quick success.

“Honesty would be appreciated,” he replies, watching the powerful line of Tajima’s spine tense. The abrupt change of subject is suspicious, seemingly an exchange of Tajima’s discomfort for his own. 

“It’s not a happy telling,” Tajima warns.

And that reaffirms it. 

“I can ask Madara or Izuna if you would prefer,” Tobirama offers. 

Chirping, Tajima shrugs with faux nonchalance while his whirlwind chakra snatches the bark off of trees a league away. Tobirama is certain that he didn’t intend for the outburst to be observed, though it’s heartening to have proof that for all of his ribbing, Uchiha Tajima’s happiness is so deeply rooted in his sons.

“No need to brother them with it, kit. Put simply, tengu genders are not so dichotomous as those of un-shifted kitsune. We can be outfitted with the ability to produce eggshells, a womb to incubate them, or both, and all healthy tengu have the means to fertilize. That’s as far as I’m willing to go with your anatomy lesson. Ask Hikaku if you have any questions regarding specifics,” he states dryly, tossing a bemused grimace over his shoulder. “As for my boys—”

Another sweeping gust of chakra fells a young oak just on the edge of Tobirama’s sensing range. Tails swaying, he continues to pad slowly behind and pulls his own abilities in close enough to afford his companion some privacy. He’s no stranger to donning a mask to hide the hurt.

“They’re unique in many ways, one of them being that their blood runs as hot as their passions.”

Tobirama hadn’t paid overly much attention to their body temperature last night. It was no different than his own, really.

“Even if they work at being still or nest in the wind, Izuna’s womb isn’t an environment conducive to coaxing a chick to life and Madara’s eggs are not safe for others to attempt surrogacy.” He laughs, but it’s a forced thing. “You’ve seen how they are around young yōkai, happy to adopt everything in sight. Chicks are everything for us and they have none.”

They broach the first ring of torii, more narrow than those of the inner shrine. As they pass, Tajima’s wings collide into the first three sets with a meaty slap before he thinks to pull them in. The clicking of their respective talons and claws sound loud in the emptiness of conversation. 

Tobirama keeps his peace until the corridor ends and broadens into a brief patch of forest through which they’ll alight on the lowest level of the shrine grounds. 

Using the gentle downward slope, he thrusts himself into the chasm yawning between them both literally and figuratively. Sticks snap under his careless paws as he hurries to close the gap and butts up against Tajima’s side of his own volition. This time it’s his arm that encircles his father’s waist—more slender than the wings and over-sized haori would suggest. “Inari’s gift is potent. Rest assured, my mates will have closure and you will have your,” he pauses to recall the term, “grandchicks.”

This time the sober chuckle is more genuine and accompanied by another of the headbutts tengu seem to favor in place of proper nuzzling. Touch doesn’t feel quite so alien now that Tobirama himself has initiated it.

“I’d expect no less, kit. I suppose I should instruct you in courting rites before you get too far ahead of yourself,” Tajima teases without malice. 

They take the final jarring step down onto the stone platform in unison. Swept clean and sparkling with embedded veins of malachite, the outermost shrine is humble in its beauty. There are no lanterns, no curling eaves or statuary. It’s simply a place to meditate and be.

At its center rests the large crate of offerings. Using Inari’s gift as an excuse, Tobirama slips away before Tajima’s proximity turns back to discomfort and bounds up to it without shame or hesitation. It opens easily, still smelling of Kagami’s sweetness and the distinct aroma of refined metal. There are spools of wire—gold, silver, and comet heart—raw cuts of silk of every shade and hue, and dishware fashioned with a cavorting fox motif about the edges. All in all, the gifts are exemplary offerings and Tobirama can find no fault in them except that they’re of no interest to him personally.

Duty done, he bows at the waist in thanks first to the shrine itself, then to Tajima. The lid slams closed at his back with a jarring thud, making his haori billow. “Offering accepted. Whatever prayers you have I’ll convey,” he drones by rote.

When he rises, it’s with kitsune fire in his eyes.

“Now, courting rites. You’re referring to the clothing and the earrings, I presume? From what I have observed, you tailor each offering to your prospective mate or mates’ tastes and incorporate elements of both yourselves and nature into the crafting.” 

Gesturing with his hands, Tobirama draws out the shape of Izuna’s silver and sapphire courting gift in the air as he sinks down to his haunches then aborts appearing respectable and sits on the ground outright. “For the earrings, the feathers serve as an aspect of your body and the stone or metal housing a representation of,” he hesitates, “some intrinsic property or association with the material itself?”

Tajima sighs explosively.

“Damn their pinions. I specifically warned those brats to leave their tokens in the aerie,” he tweets.

Fondness settles in the lazy spread of his feathers.

Tobirama is getting better at understanding the language of them. 

A tempestuous stamp of his foot just for show and Tajima sinks down into seiza a hand-span from bumping knees.

“Yes, you clever little monster. We answer the call of our mate’s soul for the design. Precious metals and precious stones for precious Yōkai,” he huffs in pretended affront.

A ‘precious’ stone. There are many gems hidden in the nooks and crannies of this mountain, even a narrow chasm filled with white, holy howlite to the West. But a collection of mineral deposits isn’t enough to show Tobirama’s mates that this burgeoning love between them is a treasure worth keeping. Where he had been apprehensive before, his choice has now been made known in the swelling of his confidence and the shadow of a father’s wings.

Tobirama bows his head. “There are many such stones here,” he concedes, “and none of them worthy.”

The corners of Tajima’s eyes go soft as he smiles. “It doesn’t have to be today. Take your time and construct your courting gifts when the materials are right. Everything you’ll need in terms of raw material is in here. Coincidence, of course.” He reaches over to rap the crate with his knuckles. “Gesshi has a tendency of carrying around his wire-wrapping tools and I can commandeer both the implements and his skill anytime you like.”

However, time is something Tobirama is entirely through with. 

_ ‘Give your tails time, Otouto, it’s only ninety more years.’  _ __   
_ ‘I’m sure father just needs a little time.’  _ _   
_ __ ‘Don’t be sad, Tobi. I won’t be gone long.’ 

If anything is worth having, it’s worth setting his jaws to while he has the chance.

“I will fashion them now,” he pronounces, voice pitched low with resolve.

Decision made, he shifts the nexus of his chakra network—the suiton tide parting around his questing thoughts—to find the magma-bright core of him. There he reveals the only stone worthy of gifting to his mates. Molded under pressure and birthed by a star, his hoshi no tama heeds the call. 

It takes a monumental effort that leaves him panting, but by the end of it, the source of Tobirama’s power rests within his cupped palm, glowing with ghostly kitsunebi.

“Is that what I suspect it is?” Tajima asks, oddly intent while shifting back to maintain a respectful distance.

“Yes. If Madara and Izuna are willing to share their lives with me, then I can give them no less.”

“Oh, son. I only hope they realize what an honor they’ve been given in you. I’ll give you space to gather your thoughts.” 

How telling that Tajima doesn’t try to dissuade him from the impulsivity of his choice, simply accepts his agency. No insinuation of his own beliefs or roaring vitriol. There’s no need for further conversation. 

“Call on me if you need anything at all.”

Tobirama flicks his ears in thanks and finds himself seated alone in the middle of the plinth as the sky darkens beneath silent wings.

Tajima’s sulfuric chakra ascends at a steep slant then bobs and weaves in loose circles around the area—a sentinel in both body and spirit.

Finally, Tobirama allows the ache in his chest to grow and the burn of his eyes to rage unchecked. He strokes his star stone with his thumb, the image of it blurring more with each passing thought. 

Butsuma’s opposition has been publically muzzled—he won’t be able to stand against Tobirama in any of the ways that matter. Hashirama has already taken the mantle of clan head in duty if not in name. Itama and Kawarama will grow to be strong kitsune with or without his instruction in the gifts of their bloodlines.

The mountain…Fushimi Inari will always be his home no matter where he goes. There’s nothing to keep him from claiming a place of belonging at the Uchiha brothers’ side, or them at his. Though he still wonders:

Will his own worthiness suffice? 

His palm wavers into no more than a peach smear on a backdrop of brown as the first tear falls.

It’s ridiculous to be so moved. He hasn’t cried since he was a kit. Heat pools in his face as he hangs his head to hide the shame of it beneath his hair. Fortunate that he’s alone for this. He allows himself to break down in silence, capturing his tears so as not to alert the plants whose roots have been hounding his steps since this morning.

By the time he finishes releasing the tenterhooks binding his heart, his hoshi no tama rests in the shallow pool like a miniature celestial body, silvered and radiant. Inari’s own teardrop moon. Huffing at his uncharacteristic poeticism, Tobirama looks to the river of sky above him until the world regains its clarity, then casts his tears up into a fine suiton mist to feed the clouds.

He breaths in deeply to clear his sinuses and swallows around the tightness in his throat. His judgment is skewed, so he will defer to Madara and Izuna’s.

No…he will not defer, he will  _ trust _ .

“Has there ever been born a more ridiculous yōkai?” he grunts, smiling just for the feel of it.

Amazing how much lighter his soul is without the weight of others’ sins. He laughs at the simplicity of the realization until he’s breathless.

By Inari’s grace, he will court his soulmates and give them the gift of his heart to warm them through the winters, and the gift of his body to house their legacy. With his mind overwhelmed by the imagining of what it would be like to have home, and nest, and family, Tobirama takes the source of his power between his teeth and cracks it neatly in half as if his hand is guided by another.

One hemisphere for each of his bonds so that they will never know loneliness.

The next hour passes in a blur of sudden insight. Izuna’s earrings had been constructed of silver-wrapped sapphire and, while beautiful, the idea of anchoring a moon to the earth doesn’t feel right. Instead, he bleeds tendrils of chakra to fashion an iridescent mounting. It serves as a beginning and a moor from which to suspend two artfully shaped feathers, one from each tail, and a tuft of his own fur. Together, the three of them are represented in a minimalistic and altogether honest piece that will last as long as Tobirama himself.

This will be Madara’s with its feathers staggered and nested upon each other like a foundation.

Not a heartbeat after, his hands are steered through the same fluid routine for the second earring as the first, though the shape of it differs.

This will be Izuna’s, feather points positioned out to ward off whatever threats may come.

For the first time, the dance steps come naturally.

For the first time, Tobirama feels whole.


	23. Madara's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for reading! I'll be finished writing this fic by the end of the month, then I'll get back to answering your comments instead of flailing in silence. ;D

Izuna’s courting garb looks good flanked in white. Long legs, muscular arms, and Madara’s mark blaring red on an exposed nape for all to see. Madara has to fight the urge to seal the promise with a kiss as he kneels behind his glorious mate, lap immediately bracketed by tails.

“You’re all in one piece. That’s good,” he hums, hovering close enough to feel Tobirama without touching, to smell the otherworldly scent that comingles so well with his own.

It’s the least he can do to remain respectful of Tobirama’s boundaries despite the fact that all he wants to do is cling worse than Izuna in the grip of a nightmare. His otouto isn’t the only one with insecurities, though Madara will never voice his. He’s the pillar, the strength between them, and it’s only natural to serve as Tobirama’s support as well. Their mate deserves no less than everything, even if that means practicing patience.

“I hold the same incredulity in seeing you hale and whole,” Tobirama ripostes without looking up from whatever has his hands occupied.

The crate remains a looming presence at his side, still not divested of its treasury-worth of gifts. Tajima is nowhere to be found and a quick glance up shows his backlit silhouette bobbing and weaving while keeping to lazy spirals in the thermals above. Izuna’s slighter shadow joins him, dive-bombing over and over again without being immediately grounded, so it’s not as if their father is anything less than playfully content. It’s a strange situation and one Madara struggles to find a tactful way of inquiring about. In the end, he doesn’t have to.

Tobirama’s tails tighten around his waist and Madara suddenly finds the space between his folded legs occupied by narrow hips and the fire in his chest stoked by the heat of another body. He embraces Tobirama on reflex and accepts his weight, finally giving into the urge to press a chaste kiss to the side of his neck.

Tobirama arches into it, rumbling low and pleased. “I take it Izuna was the only casualty of Senju hospitality?” he asks as if he’s not actively molding and reforming Madara’s world. “I had thought his constitution strong enough to weather a little upset.”

“Upset?” Madara murmurs into pale skin.

The Senju had been in an uproar of sorts—yipping and calling out over each other in their odd, chittering way. Only Butsuma and Hashirama had kept to their humanoid forms, and even then, Hashirama was the only one to forgo looking for answers in the dregs of his soup bowl.

Izuna made it all of five minutes before puffing up under the misguided threats of an older brother and having to be plucked into obedience. At least after weathering the storm of both Tousan and Izuna’s indiscretions there’s solid proof that the peace treaty isn’t a paper construct.

Sighing, Madara noses aside the collar of the courting haori he designed. “Pretty sure you upended the shogi board completely, koibito.”

Another rolling purr.

“‘Koibito’,” Tobirama repeats, dragging the word out and tasting each syllable.

Ah, that slipped out did it? Wincing, Madara pulls away from planting pink petals along the juncture of Tobirama’s shoulder and rests his forehead there in apology. “Sorry,” he offers, receiving an amused huff in return.

“No, the endearment is fine,” Tobirama replies, hesitating for only a heartbeat. “I enjoy the sound when you say it.”

Relief unfurls like a rain lily, carrying with it that unique scent of hope. Last night wasn’t a mistake. There’s no regret emanating from any of the places where they touch and the way Tobirama tilts his head back fully to rest on Madara’s shoulder is a gift greater than any other. He only wishes Izuna would stop his nonsense and join them here splayed out on the ground in the middle of Inari’s holy providence.

Then it would be a perfect morning.

“And the offerings?”

The purr grows louder before cutting off abruptly as Tobirama reaches back to stroke through his claws through the thickness of Madara’s hair. They catch because with everything else going on there’s been no time for preening, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just slips past the tangles and scratches gently at his scalp where a kitsune’s ears would be.

“The offerings for Inari are more than satisfactory,” Tobirama admits, still watching the sky, “and yet they pale in comparison to this.” He turns to grant a kiss of his own to Madara’s cheek. “I’ve made my choice and I’ve a firm grasp on my boundaries. Uchiha Madara, I would have you and your brother as mates and am willing to compromise however I must to see this future between us realized. It would be my honor to build a home—to carry our young. The three of us.”

“Tobirama,” Madara trills, voice a quill’s breadth from breaking.

Gentle pressure on his earlobe, soft lips and the hint of teeth aborts the possibility of stringing together anything more than a guttural groan.

“I’ve made you a gift.”

The warm puff of air is enough to undo him. Shuddering, Madara readies himself to be destroyed completely and remade into whatever image his mates would ask of him.

Tobirama holds a courting earring aloft and in an instant, the world stops.

Insects still their buzzing cadence. Shadows cast by wings merge with those of the canopy, dappled light softening at the edges. And through it all, Madara fights for air. He’s a tengu of strong stock, but never has he been felled so summarily. If he held on any harder his talons would tear right through the courting haori that he made with Izuna in mind but has grown to fit them both. Indra deliver him, this must be what ascension feels like.

The style of crafting is completely alien and all the more powerful for it—feathers to represent the three of them nested one atop the other, bound to a portion of what can only be a kitsune’s soul with how powerfully it resonates chakra. Tobirama’s soul. Madara has never seen the like. A deity’s favor housed within a pearl no bigger than a lotus seed, yet large enough to encompass a dream. 

Tobirama twirls the visible representation of their bond so that it catches the light. “Summon Izuna. I would have you both here so as not to repeat myself,” he orders gently, as if there is any breath left in Madara’s lungs to call out with. He tries to swallow. Fails. It’s only with another kiss—this time seared against the crease at the corner of his eye—that he can rally his wits.

“Yeah,” he whispers, incredulous. “Yes. I can do that.”

Hooding his eyes, he looks up to the sun and fills his lungs with enough air to fuel a katon jutsu for a week. Energy as clear and refreshing as the Naka laps at his readied chakric channels, encourages them to swell further. Finally, he opens his throat and allows the whirlwind to sweep up through the canopy so strong it howls. Branches crack and the clouds themselves seem to bow. As Tajima and Izuna tumble, quickly regaining their altitude, Madara wrangles the spout of air back into his belly and lets loose a long, trilling song—the loveliest he knows because it was composed for Izuna specifically.

Soon Tobirama will have one of his own as well, equally as enchanting.

Above them, Tajima’s broad wings snap wide into a long, fast glide and the hooked talons of his feet flash in the sun a brief instant before coming down right in the small of Izuna’s back. His small shadow grows larger as he tumbles and struggles to regain lift, a chick on his first flight. Even more endearing than the visibly wavering down is the way his screamed expletives increase in volume as he approaches the ground.

Such a glorious disaster, his brother, their mate.

As expected, Izuna flips neatly at the last second and slams a wall of superheated air into the flagstones, exerting so much pressure at its focus that the basalt turns to gneiss. He rides the violent updraft for a couple of meters, then drops down to land with slightly bent knees. “That’s cheating, you—” he shrieks skyward only for Tajima’s hawk’s cry to cut him off with a “Don’t finish that sentence, brat!” heard from a vertical kilometer away.

Izuna hisses, stamping his foot petulantly.

“You owl’s asshole,” he continues under his breath, fingering the tears in the back of his haori. “This match doesn’t count.”

“Otouto, you need to stop thinking about Tousan and get over here.”

Practically spitting sparks, Izuna clenches and releases his fists several times, so puffed up even his hair stands on end. A cockatrice would fold under the scrutiny of his narrow-eyed glare. “Don’t tell me you’re taking his side. He outright cheated! And I’m pretty sure that  _ pellet-eater _ drew blood,” he rails despite his back being perfectly intact with the exception of some shredded silk and a half-unfurled obi.

Madara restrains his frustration, knowing his brother doesn’t realize the significance of the situation he’s been grounded into. He nuzzles the side of Tobirama’s neck in apology for the ridiculousness his life is about to host in the form of one Uchiha Izuna.

“Your back is fine. But, if I have to tell you to get over here again, having your wings clipped is going to be the least of your worries,” he states. They both know he doesn’t mean it—his love runs too deep to treat Izuna poorly in anger or otherwise—though even the empty threat of it is rare enough to give Izuna pause.

Wings taking a softer angle, he dips his head and releases his anger in increments. A conscious easing of tension ripples down from his shoulders through to his talon tips where they abruptly stop scoring white lines into the pavers.

Such a powerful will, Madara thinks, and all the more potent for the degree of power it has to contain. There’s an apology incoming, he can tell in the forced discharge of chakra giving life to the air around them. Even so, it dies half-formed on Izuna’s lips.

The earrings.

Madara can tell the exact moment he realizes what it is Tobirama is shielding in his cupped palms to provide safety from the blowback of such a violent landing. A peek of feather. A glint of star stone. Izuna’s eyes grow wide and begin to spin with two, now three tomoe—more than Madara has ever seen in the red irises they share.

“No,” Izuna wheezes. It’s obvious that the denial is incredulity, not refusal. He staggers, unbalanced by the talons and wings he was born with, then drops down to his knees between Tobirama’s outstretched legs. The impact is heavy. Boneless. “This is real?”

And Madara can understand because he himself was just laid bare as well. An entire future begins to unfurl before them, one heralded by peace and the distant echoes of cheeps in a nest made to house an entire flock. It’s too potent a gift not to be grounded by the weight of it.

Instead of answering outright, Tobirama hesitates a heartbeat before reaching out to stroke haphazard stands of hair away from where they’ve stuck to the corner of Izuna’s mouth. He continues to map the pretty contours of jaw and lips until everything is memorized and Izuna fights to hold back emotion so strong he trembles with it. Those clever fingers hook around the back of his neck and Madara is afforded the perfect angle from which to watch his mates come together in a kiss as light and sweet as a zephyr.

Parting with obvious reluctance, Tobirama hauls Izuna in against his chest and leans back with the expectation that Madara will take their weight, which he does. Of course he does.

Sharing body heat like this—sun-warmed flagstones beneath them and a blanket of limp wings—the day should be stifling, but it’s not. This taste of physical affection freely given is nowhere near enough to match the conflagration in Madara’s heart. He’s burning unchecked from the inside out, a flame with infinite tinder.

“Last night it was stated that wanting me did not allow for taking advantage of my indecision. Your respect for my boundaries is,” Tobirama pauses to consider his words, “novel. I need no more time to consider my role in this mating or what I have to gain from accepting our bond outright. I would have you both and be happier for it, I believe.” He lets loose an odd, resonate chitter, stroking the back of Izuna’s head as it comes to rest on the shoulder opposite of Madara’s.

Madara doesn’t ask if he’s sure or try to wheedle out further information to assuage his own baseless fears. This is their mate’s choice and they’ll defer to his wisdom on the matter.

“We would be more than honored to have you and be had in turn,” he offers in formal acceptance for both himself and his otouto, so far beyond words he can only flutter and chirr.

“A sentiment I share. Too, I will carry our children and hear no protests against it.” Inviting no argument, Tobirama turns to snap his teeth just shy of Madara’s cheek then follows it with a brief lick. “My body is yours, as is my soul.”

It’s everything Madara has ever needed to be whole packaged neatly into a single innocuous vow. If Izuna’s long, heartfelt groan is anything to go by, his brother feels the same. 

Blind to the way he’s upended their world in the best of ways, Tobirama sends the first of two feathered earrings to dance on his fingertips. It floats on spiritual eddies, bobbing and weaving as if alive and bursting into ghostly foxfire once it alights upright on his palm.

Madara watches, entranced.

Almost unnoticed, the lingering remnant of Tobirama’s kiss on his earlobe pulses in time to the ebb and flow of the feather’s choreography. Like calling to like, the hoshi no tama stills and begins its slow, gentle ascension to rest against his ear. A brief jolt of, not pain, but something equally as powerful, rocks him, leaves him breathless.

“Tobirama,” he murmurs like a benediction.

The hand of fate presses down upon them and if it were night, Madara is certain the moon would have wept Indra’s bloody light. He’s never been one for kowtowing to the powers that be, though in this case he might be willing to make an exception. He’ll line their aerie with incense every evening at dusk, so thick that their patron will see nothing but a soft circle of stars come to earth as he looks down with his moon’s eye.

An egg, shimmering and resplendent in white and blue will herald the first of many prayers given in thanks even as the small life inside of it grows too large to contain for long. Madara swallows against the vivid afterimage and the swell of completion he feels having seen it, not understanding where the innate knowledge originates. Tengu eggs have never been so artful.

Regardless, it’s a truly fulfilling prospect to love, be loved, and birth a tangible reminder between them. A chick fashioned from all of their best parts. Wide, red eyes in a round face. Down as soft and white as first snowfall.

It’s going to be perfect.

“And you, Izuna?” Tobirama asks. 

Overwhelmed, Izuna crawls up to straddle Tobirama’s lap and nods as he hides his face—so strong in war and so tender in love. Truly, Madara can only thank the kami whose invisible hands saw fit to bring the three of them together.

“Yeah. What Nii-san said,” he trills, low and stilted.

Sighing, Tobirama forces his head back with palm to the forehead. “I would prefer to hear  _ you _ say it,” he rumbles, watching with an intensity that’s soul-deep.

Izuna’s cheeks are pink tinged and wet with what he’ll claim is sweat to his dying day. It’s an awkward position and still he clings, neck bulging with the effort of not being pushed away further. 

“I want all of that, too. You. And Madara. And making a family together,” he replies with none of the brashness he demonstrates when sex is the only thing on the line. Such a sweet, sensitive chickadee underneath it all.

“Good.”

His attention snaps to the second token Tobirama holds aloft.

“Then I trust you will hold and protect this piece of me,” their new mate states simply, giving Izuna only a second to marvel at the crisp lines of his own gift before Tobirama relaxes his hold and encourages him to look away. A fiery kiss against his earlobe, a drag of teeth that makes Izuna shudder in their joint embrace, and the earring floats into place. Chakra flares bright enough to cast Izuna’s cheekbone in blue relief before it settles into its anchor point.

It’s as lovely and sharp as he is. A blade with a core of folded steel.

Izuna moans, sliding forward along Tobirama’s thighs to bring their fronts flush.

Familiar talons hook in the soft skin beneath Madara’s chin to ease him forward into his brother’s lips. Fire erupts around them—a brilliant halo of chakra as their bond settles into place so wholly the small, stone shrine cracks.

How very telling that none of them spare the cacophonous sound a glance.

“There, your courting rites are honored and I admit I am eager to cement them further. Now how long will it take for you to produce our clutch?” Tobirama asks, because kitsune propriety is completely nonexistent.

Izuna chokes, then begins to laugh hesitantly against Madara’s lips—breathy sounds that bring with them the salty scent of miso and honeyed tea. Clutching his earring, he sits upright, eyebrows disappearing into the fringe of his hair. Amusing to see him of all tengu blush. “Twenty-four hours,” he whispers under his breath.

Which, yes, but also no. 

“Izuna, stop. We still don’t know each other’s boundaries or where we’ll nest,” he inhales long and slow, “or whether we’ll even be in a nest and not a den.” The admission rankles knowing how easy it would be to simply say ‘yes’ and fall together without reservation. “There’s too much we haven’t talked about. We need more ti—”

Tobirama contracts his tails and barks out a warning before Madara can finish his sentence.

“If you tell me any variation of phrase that implies temperance or patience, I’ll not be liable for my actions,” Tobirama intones, dropping his already deep voice. “ _ I do not need time _ . Unless you and Izuna require a delay for personal reasons, which I will of course respect, I would have you both  _ now _ .”

Color leeches from the backdrop of green and brown until all that Madara can see is Tobirama’s austere profile, backlit by the sun and further illuminated by this mantle of new-found confidence. He’s a waking vision, well and truly.

“Nii-san?” Izuna peeps, his voice soft. “Can we just learn some of those things as we go? Because this is a really, really good dream and I don’t want to wake up before…you know.” His wings come to life to give nuance to an otherwise crass implication. Glossy, black pinions spread one after the other in slow sequence, rounding to encompass them in an overt show of protection as one would do for an incubating mate—to reassure them that their chick will be safe and provided for. How lucky that this family will have not two, but three uncontested powers to cement that cloister.

Though, a zenko wouldn’t understand the additional level of communication or its significance. It’s not actually sex Izuna’s asking for—not that he would ever turn intimacy of any kind down—but the more caring parts of being in a complete bond. One where their past failings are swept aside in the face of Tobirama’s strengths.

Before Madara can clarify, Tobirama yips, interlacing their fingers on his hip and squeezing briefly.

“Agreed. I have some knowledge, but no experience. I trust you both to teach me in practicum and I will express my wants and needs clearly when I am able to establish a baseline through trial and error. Does this satisfy your criteria for ‘establishing boundaries’?” he asks dryly, though his underlying seriousness is clear in the stiffness of his spine. Always so expectant that he’ll be denied everything he wants because that’s all he’s known. 

Madara rests his cheek on the softness of Tobirama’s pelt, returns the squeeze and holds it.

A gentle breeze kicks up and sets his courting earing to fluttering. If anything, that slight pull—on his ear, on his heartstrings, on his soul—gives rise to his own certainty.

“Sure. Let’s go home.”


	24. Interlude: Hashirama's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of awesome announcements! 
> 
> 1.) The fic is written in its entirety, so the update pace is about to pick up. ;D ~~After all, we all know how terrible I am at spacing out updates and actually remembering to post.~~
> 
> 2.) Check out these INCREDIBLE pieces of fanart, created by the extraordinarily talented [good-grievance](https://good-grievance.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.  
> [The kitsune baes in fox form](https://good-grievance.tumblr.com/post/638784017433542656/collection-of-all-the-senju-foxes-for)  
> [Izuna, Mito, and Madara with some of the most beautiful wing and clothing patterns](https://good-grievance.tumblr.com/post/635452364564938752/gift-series-of-mythological-watercolors-for?is_related_post=1)

_ Well, this sure is a mess _ , Hashirama thinks as he accidentally lights his third paper lantern on fire and the pot of glue along with it. Several kodama waggle their indistinct fingers at him while others set about dragging over a tea kettle about half their size.

The cast iron scrapes and squeals across the flagstones, but they figure out how to pair off in order to climb on their partner’s shoulders and lift the kettle from there. No more friction, just a smooth, easy transition from table to the miniature bonfire threatening to claim Hashirama’s hakama.

They’re so good at teamwork, and trusting each other, and  _ being a family _ .

A low, building whine, and he’s crying all over again, snot running freely down his face as the elders ignore him in favor of teaching Kagami how to grind an inkstick into the perfect consistency for sumi-e koi. Their lanterns are really cute, but Hashirama is over here hurting!

His sweet, innocent, baby otouto has grown up overnight—though the real problem lies in the fact that he’s matured when Hashirama wasn’t looking and without his influence. He tried so hard to give Tobirama a good life. Sure, he couldn’t be there all the time and maybe when he was there he would get distracted, but…there’s always a ‘but,’ he realizes. And maybe that constant litany of excuses and exceptions has added up over the years. He’s exceedingly intelligent—well aware of his own failings—though he’s never had to face them so readily as he has in the past hour.

Madara and his brother are Tobirama’s soulmates, the bond acknowledged in triplicate, and the Uchiha are family by default. Why that necessitates forgoing his claim to being Senju, Hashirama can’t begin to say. He’s happy for his kit, he really is—Tobi deserves everything good in life. If he wants to leave, that’s his right no matter how much Hashirama wants to bind his precious paws with mokuton and never let go.

Echoing his thoughts, tendrils of root crack and grind their way up through the flagstones to wrap loosely around his thighs, his waist, his wrists. They trip up one of the kodama, who upends its partner. They all chitter and vibrate as the kettle goes rolling in a cacophonous clatter, spilling jasmine tea everywhere. 

Even his tree-children don’t love him anymore.

This time, the flood of tears is accompanied by a wail so heartfelt it has Tajima’s guards looking back in concern at where he sits sprawled on the floor next to his brother’s shrine. Everything is terrible.

“Husband, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Mito shimmers in his vision, a magma heart swept up into the lovely, familiar lines of the face he adores. His strong, flawless mate kneels between his legs to lean in and kiss his brow while reclaiming the smoldering lantern from his hands. Another kiss, one on each cheek, has his tears evaporating, leaving only salt tracks in their wake.

“What is the matter?” she asks with the particular cant of her head that means she already knows the answer. 

Hashirama loves her so much. All he has to do is look up with watery eyes and say his brother’s name for her to sigh fondly and stroke his jaw.

“Madara and Izuna are fine tengu and their hearts are pure. They’ll serve your brother as exemplary mates no matter where they choose to roost,” she croons. Her elegant wings stretch out behind her to hover off of the ground and her inner coverts flare white for a heartbeat, long enough to recall all of Hashirama’s rampant kitsune fire back into herself.

The kodama cheer silently. Those who aren’t busy returning the kettle to the table fade out of existence to reappear on Hashirama’s lap and shoulders. One of the more intrepid tree spirits becomes tangible lying across Mito’s hair, though that doesn’t last long before it takes a tumbling dive into Hashirama’s arms. He absently pats out the flames and stuffs the vibrating kodama back into the open front of his kosode.

“But Tobi’s  _ my _ otouto,” he argues, though his voice cracks worse than a kit’s.

“I’m fairly certain that between the overt threats and entreaties you made on his behalf his mates understand that fact. They’re not taking Tobirama away from you, love. If anything, they are giving him the happiness that we could not.”

She’s sweet to use ‘we’ as if Tobirama’s upbringing isn’t his own very personal failure. If only Butsuma hadn’t gone half mad in his grief—if only Hashirama had any concept whatsoever how to raise kits when he took Tobirama’s scruff into his mouth and returned from finding a wet nurse to snarl and snap their father off of his own mountain.

It wasn’t his proudest moment, but what’s done is done. They all have their regrets.

“Do you really think so?”

“I do. Those boys are as wholly smitten as I am with you, husband. Let them figure out their own path, even if it leads where we cannot follow,” she answers in her melodic cadence, so otherworldly and divine. Hashirama truly is fortunate to have bonded with such a one-of-a-kind mate.

Sniffling, he looks down to the small sea of faces in his lap, their bulbous, black eyes wide and locked onto his grief. Then they all shift as one.

A bright series of peeps erupts from the tables where Kagami has apparently succeeded in giving his koi fins for the first time. His little talons skitter on the stone as he sprints off of the tatami mats and runs a victorious circle around the kodama Tobirama gifted him. It claps with its strangely defined hands, sporting fingers like none of Hashirama’s typical kodama do.

Hikaku sweeps up to his feet as well and joins the chick in his impromptu celebration.

This is his otouto’s future—filled with laughter and affection, a family that loves freely with everything they are regardless of blood or the whims of absentee kami. Maybe it’s not so bad to step back. Maybe what Tobirama deserves is an anija who isn’t so selfish as to deny him everything he could ever want.

“Okay,” he concedes, pulling Mito flush against his chest. The kodama vanish, replaced by lithe muscle and a welcoming embrace. “I’ll try not to mess it up.”

A flare of phoenix fire sweeps up between them, settling his hair to floating on the invisible thermal. “Firstly, no choice you make with good intention will ever be a failure,” Mito says, nuzzling in close enough to shed sparks against his neck. “And secondly, Madara scoffed in the face of your threats, my dear. Regardless of the powerful differential, I do believe Izuna would have his own words with you in the language of talons, as well. As powerful as you are, together, the three of them will be an unparalleled force. Best not to stand in their way, hmm?”

As if he ever truly would.

Shrieking with glee, Kagami’s wings flutter near as fast as a humming bird’s as Hikaku tosses him up towards the sky and catches him again without faltering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is short. Tomorrow you'll be getting over 8k of porn to make **up** for it. hur hur XDDD


	25. Tobirama's POV (Rated E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: we're talking kitsune and tengu here, so there will be some weird genitalia and a heaping helping of impulsivity. Aka- Horny, soul-married, teens with animal instincts thinking with their undercarriage. lol 
> 
> Not your thing? Feel free to skip and I'll write a brief summary in the notes on the following chapter. ;D

It’s with a vague sort of horror that Tobirama watches his future unfold before him.

Wings arched wide in what he’s since learned is generalized threat, Madara smooths a wrinkle from one of the pillows in his nesting linens. Tobirama can hear the rolling thunder of discontent and wonders if this newfound neuroticism is because of him specifically, or a trait picked up over time and only now expressed.

Either way, twenty minutes later and the nest still isn’t quite right, though the fussing does give Izuna enough time to brew tea for the two of them to enjoy. Perhaps he should recruit his suiton to fish Madara’s copper pot from the river in exchange for the gift he’ll be receiving at some point. Possibly today. Probably next week. 

In this lifetime, ideally.

“Will he be finished soon?” Tobirama asks as he accepts the cup filled with near-boiling tea into his bare hands. He continues to observe, tailor sitting on top of the chabudai as another sheet fails to pass inspection and is violently added to the growing pile in the corner of the room.

Gold, cream, and crimson all intermingle in a haphazard pile of bamboo fabric—castoffs despite their perfection.

Izuna grins, too focused on pouring his own cup to turn and look. Steam wafts up to caress his cheeks and tint them pink. “Doubt it,” he chirps, successfully fighting a laugh, but failing to keep the smile from his voice. “Nii-san’s done this a few times, back before we realized we couldn’t…well…he’ll keep going as long as you let him. It’s cute how broody he gets.”

He takes a sip, as immune to the heat as Tobirama is.

Brooding. He’s never witnessed the behavior in Mito those few times Hashirama had grown despondent in her absence and necessitated a visit. Joy, lust, annoyance, fondness, and all other hallmarks of their bond, but never this. Madara fluffs the same pillow into the same configuration for the third time in a row before storming over to his discard pile to retrieve an exact duplicate he had found to be unfit not five minutes before. He switches them out, grunting in satisfaction. 

His single-minded commitment is impressive.

“And how do you stop this?”

Izuna snorts, taking a seat next to Tobirama on the chabudai and pressing up close. “Do whatever works? I tackled him once and that didn’t end well, so uh, not that. Feeling him up is an option. Preening. Bribery. Shoving other tengu’s chicks at him...”

The list continues to ramp up into frankly outlandish suggestions, all of which make Izuna’s eyes soften and his smile grow at the imagining. It’s sweet how attached the brothers are to each other—accepting the other’s eccentricities without question and molding themselves to fit together with no space left undiscovered. That they are willing to rearrange their configuration to admit Tobirama’s own jigsaw piece is humbling.

He only hopes that this new picture they make is equally as sweet.

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” Izuna says low enough to keep the reminder between them. “The egg thing, I mean. Nii-san and I would be fine with just being allowed to love _you_.”

Loving him for who he is, not out of duty nor for what he can do is such a strange concept and one Tobirama can’t fully grasp. They’ll figure it out together, he supposes. At least in this strange new world he’ll not be left to navigate it alone.

“Tobirama?”

It’s only after Izuna speaks again that Tobirama realizes they had both fallen quiet for a time. The cup in his hands is warm and the nest still mostly as it was, so not too long a loss. Still, it’s difficult to express the many ways in which the offer of sacrifice reaffirms his stance. 

“The reminder, while appreciated, is entirely unnecessary.” He casually laps at the surface of his tea—tasting of grass and laced with the smoky aroma of his mates’ chakra. “I find myself eager at the prospect of mating you both fully. Before today, I have not considered bearing young because I have never thought myself worthy of a mate. Now that I have been given the opportunity for both, I will not squander it.”

He’ll have only known Izuna for four days by the time their egg is ready for him to carry, but it feels like four months. Four years. A lifetime could pass and he’d be no less convinced than he is right now, in this moment, that what they are building together is right. 

“Oh,” Izuna cheeps, watching Tobirama tongue disappear only to reappear once again for a deeper taste. “Okay. That’s—yeah.” He sets down his cup with a ceramic clink and returns his tea-warmed fingers to cradle Tobirama’s chin. The weight of him is pleasant, as is the growing scent of fire-roasted acorns.

They kiss once more and it fills Tobirama with longing as deep and swift as the Naka. For the first time, he doesn’t hesitate to touch or be touched in turn. When Izuna angles them to better lick along the seam of his lips, Tobirama meets him promptly, eagerly, to welcome the weight of his tongue and pass along the prayer captured by the heat of his hands.

His own tea cup tumbles from numb fingers to spill on the floor. Ceramic shards tinkle as they rebound and roll. 

Groaning, Tobirama forgoes tengu propriety to get a hold of the tattered obi around Izuna’s waist. There’s barely a few strands left holding it in place and they tear easily enough under his claws.

Izuna jolts at the sound of rent silk. He makes a muffled inquiry, refusing to stop or slow the kiss that’s slowly grinding them down into their base components. Inari’s grace will not be enough to keep Tobirama from breaking, so his heart calls out for Indra’s blessing as well to fill those cracks and make him whole.

Like lacquered gold, Izuna sweeps up to straddle his thighs and answer the call in his patron’s stead. No more skillful kintsugi has ever been practiced—no finer repair has ever been wrought. 

Tobirama devours with more passion than skill. His intrepid hands slip into the sides of his mate’s hakama and discover skin. Another push of Izuna’s hips and they card through feathers to settle on firm, rounded buttocks.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing other than that which comes by instinct. And instinct tells him that this isn’t enough. He needs more—more touch, more heat, more _mates_. It’s with a Herculean effort that he’s able to pull back, snapping his teeth when Izuna immediately tries to chase the pleasure they had been building.

“Wait,” he orders, voice a rolling baritone so powerful Izuna’s lashes flutter.

Across the room, Madara stands tall, surveying his handiwork from above, ignorant to anything that’s not his nest. Black pinions wearing the sign of their bond stretch wide and scoop the air in slow motion. He’s a genuinely beautiful tengu, strong and thick in the way of terrestrial yōkai with such massive stores of chakra roiling in his coils the added heft isn’t even an inconvenience for flight.

While bearing a more lithe aesthetic, Izuna is equally as stunning. Together, they are going to be devastating.

Swallowing in anticipation, Tobirama surges up to his paws, mindful of his claws as he lifts his mate along with him.

Izuna trills and bullies in close. His whip-cord arms immediately wrap around Tobirama’s neck and his thighs clamp tight. There’s such strength in him running parallel to his passions—empowered by them. There’s a kitsune’s playful nature there, too. 

“This is one way to distract Nii-san,” he whispers, repositioning his hips and thinking himself clever. The way talons close on the base of Tobirama’s tails can’t be a coincidence, not with the grin growing against his cheek and the hot breath coming faster through his hair.

Tobirama lips at the earring he crafted with his own hands and feeds the hoshi no tama a spike a chakra, just enough to open a connection between them. In an instant, Izuna’s indecencies cease under the weight of knowing Tobirama’s soul—of watching that growing seed of love and devotion sprout into what will one day house the totality of their bond, a tree so mighty one world will not be enough to house its roots.

The room warms.

Izuna pulls back to look him in the eye, a verdant ring circling his pupil as the connection breaks. He screws his eyes shut and once more the mischief bleeds out of him. There will be an opportunity to have fun playing and taunting each other as they come together, but this isn’t that time. Another kiss, chaste and sweet, eases them back into the flame of connection that has repeatedly guided them into each other’s arms since that first night dancing under the blood moon. 

With the echoes of Izuna’s knowledge still resounding in his heart, Tobirama broaches the nest and sinks to his knees slowly so as not to jar. He hovers close and lowers them to the bedspread, taking pleasure in the rippling coverts and pinions where wings unfold to make room for their weight to be pressed down. 

Above him, the slits of light filtering through the thatch walls are interrupted by a shadow both massive and reassuring. A second pair of wings comes down to bracket him, capture him and hold him close to the long line of muscle easing in against his back.  
  


“You shouldn’t be rewarding him for bad behavior,” Madara says, voice thick with pretended affront. A puff of hot breath raises gooseflesh as he noses at Tobirama’s hairline then dips lower to drag teeth along his nape. 

The bolt of arousal is immediate and overpowering. Tobirama thrusts down on instinct, buttocks clenching and powering his hips forward to feel the pressure of silk and feathers against his sheath. A strangled yip escapes him when the grip on his neck grows stronger, not painful, just undeniably present.

“You’re both so damn impatient,” Madara mumbles through his mouthful of flesh.

The flick of his tongue against Tobirama’s skin with each muffled syllable only heightens the sharpness of his teeth by contrast. It’s the natural predilection of a kitsune to mount, hold, and mate like this, nothing like what he’s witnessed in avian-kind, Mito included, but it feels like a well-practiced maneuver nonetheless. Madara knows how to dig in deep with his talons, how to hold just right. Those teeth were made for laying claim. 

“Not impatient,” Tobirama replies once he’s able to rally his strength enough to push back. His tails spread readily to either side of Madara’s hips. “Eager to breed you before duty pulls us away for less-pleasurable pastimes.”

There, a telltale stutter of breath beneath and behind him.

“Fuck,” Izuna groans, eyelashes fluttering as he takes a rattling inhale. His thighs clench around Tobirama, muscular and enticing even through the hakama. He reaches up stroke the seal of Madara’s mouth where it continues to sear a line of fire straight to Tobirama’s loins. “I would say ‘sorry’ for interrupting your brooding, Nii-san, but I’m really, really not.”

He laughs, the sound broken and rough.

Madara whistles low in the back of his throat in answer as his jaw slackens just enough to tilt his chin and suck noisily at his brother’s fingertips. “I know you’re not. And you’ll be making it up to me later. Both of you. Repeatedly,” he rumbles. There’s obviously an underlying meaning judging by the way the heat between Izuna’s legs flares even brighter. The scent of him thickens—sweet hickory smoke, Western wind, and everything divine.

He wants to quip back, as is his nature, but the words die on a particularly lewd suckling sound.

Inari preserve him, Tobirama has never known the pleasure of sexual gratification, much less mating games. He never understood the appeal of touching and being touched in turn. If they keep going like this his mates are going to destroy him by the end, and with the way they speak it’s not likely to be the flashfire event of creatures in the forest; they intend to devour him completely over time until there’s nothing left.

Not even the scavengers will be allowed to know his taste.

There’s a wet, muted pop, then Izuna’s arm falls back to the nest, upraised and resplendent in his need. Hair spills across the cream-colored sheets like ink where they’re rucked up to either side of him. He watches Tobirama with red eyes and the matching color in his cheeks framing an unabashed grin.

Color and light—Uchiha Izuna is a pale canvas stretched out before him, more worthy of worship than any shrine.

Intoxicating and inexplicably his.

No… _ theirs _ .

Tobirama slides his knees further apart and arches his lower back to rub more fully against the cradle of Madara’s hips, to entice him into rutting with them as well. Let their prayers be heard, not in the clapping of human hands, but in the slap of tengu and kitsune flesh. Strange that there’s no hardness there, not like he has slipping from his sheath in incontrollable increments. Still, victory is had in the punched out groan, the flood of his mate’s pheromones—similar to Izuna’s, yet unique in the subtle note of citrus underlying the conflagration.

He takes in as much as he can and wreaths his tails in chakra as he shoves back just to hear the impact.

“Indra’s balls,” Madara grunts, falling forward to slam his wings to either side of them for balance. His hands follow not a second later, one interlacing with Izuna’s and the other sliding down Tobirama’s flank. The strength in him is incredible—pectorals built for flight flexing with the position as his biceps swell like a vise with Tobirama the white-hot steel between them. 

Madara pets his fur along the grain down his thigh, then pulls back against it to trail his talons closer to where Tobirama’s sheath strains not to expel his cock all at once. Temperance is a wise notion, but one that goes unrealized. The feel of Madara’s callused palm has him offering up the entirety of his length, long, thick, and wet with desire.

It surprises them both, he thinks. Madara grips him reflexively, just tight enough to add a hint of pain to the unfurling pleasure. In that moment, Tobirama knows what it is to  _ want _ . His stomach tightens. His tails shudder. Unbeknownst to him, a slow steady whine builds in his chest as he thrusts into the glory of Madara’s fist—instinct guiding him in how to tuck his hips down and in to reach further, rut faster.

“Easy now. If we don’t—” Another choked moan when Tobirama finds a more insightful rhythm. “Would you stop so I can speak,” Madara hisses.

Coming out of his slack-jawed daze, Izuna arches up, flings his legs around them both with eyes wide in warning. His feathers flutter in a wave as mesmerizing as the bead of sweat tracking down the prominence of his throat. “Don’t you dare!” he chirps at Tobirama, gripping the front of his haori one-handed to keep him from pulling back. The knuckles he has interlaced with Madara’s turn as white as Tobirama’s pelt. “If you let him talk it’s all over and we’ll be empty-vented for  _ days _ .”

Tobirama chuffs at him, hips slowing but not stilled. What that expression means, he has no idea, but it’s couched in a tone that makes it seem exceedingly unpleasant.

“Do either of you even know what the other has between their legs?” Madara argues unabated. “No? Exactly. Neither do I and this feels bigger than anything I’ve ever taken.” He squeezes in punctuation and Tobirama wonders if this is what it feels like to ascend. “So we’re going to stop for a thrice damned minute to figure out what we all have going on down below and then you’re both going to problem solve how to shove whatever we find into me and make a fucking egg.”

Yes.  _ Yes _ . If that’s what needs doing then it’s a task best done with alacrity. Never before has the thought of breeding made Tobirama’s mouth go dry and his heart falter like this. It takes an effort, but he grits his teeth and manages not to bark when Madara’s glorious hand leaves him bobbing in the air, swollen and unfulfilled. 

“A—” He chokes on the thickness of his own voice, swallows, tries again. “A wise course of action.”

“No it’s not!” Izuna wails. “It’s the worst idea he’s ever had. Why do you both hate me so much?”

“Because you keep ruining my nest,” Madara retorts, trying for a dry cadence, but still sounding unbearably aroused. Tobirama would be amused if he weren’t preoccupied with imagining what Izuna’s full lips would look like stretched around the swelling of his knot instead of falling open in outrage. It would shut him up nicely to be locked there, filled with him.

Dipping down to chase the weight of his tongue in a kiss as filthy as his thoughts manages the same, if not quite as arresting. Izuna responds after only a heartbeat of indecision, allowing Madara to pull away in favor of keeping this burgeoning love trapped in his arms.

It’s no trouble for Tobirama to reward his capitulation with a hum and wandering hands.

Izuna’s body is taut, chest and stomach dusted with down so fine it could be fox fur. There’s a small patch missing—an injury he presumes—but other than that, stroking his abdominals feels the same under Tobirama’s hand as his own. 

Behind him, wings swish and Madara’s strong hands begin to disrobe them both—patient and gentle for all that his chakra smolders hotter with each new stretch of body revealed. 

Tobirama himself, Izuna, they both receive the same bonfire yearning from Madara when sun kisses skin. For all the time his mates have already been together, he feels no lesser in their regard. No greater either, equal in all things. Their affection has a permanence that feels like new discovery each and every time they touch and now he too has been given that gift.

It’s too much. Not enough.

Madara’s lips track along the dimples in Tobirama’s back as he pushes the haori up past his waist. “Our soul marks look good on you,” he says with his heart in his throat.

Tobirama’s obi falls from slack fingers, a sea of stars emblazoned on blue silk slipping down to pool around his knees. At first there’s a moment of denial where he wants to clutch his prize tight and pull the silken embrace back up around him. It’s his. It was a gift freely given, or at least allowed to stay on his person until Madara and Izuna could reclaim him along with it.

But then again, he supposes this  _ is _ that reclaiming. His mates’ arms will be his courting garb, their devotion his mantle.

He breaks away from the gravity of Izuna’s mouth and pushes up all the way, letting his head hang as he relearns how to breathe. It feels odd to be in this form without his pelt on his shoulders. Even so, that comfort is easily replaced by the weight of Madara’s gaze and the unerring appreciation lending his chakra its flavor.

“Everything about you is breath-taking,” Madara continues as if he’s not expressed more honest praise in two sentences than Tobirama has heard in a lifetime.

“Or perhaps you’re projecting,” Tobirama deflects. He receives an airy snort in return and his ears swivel to follow the progress of Madara’s own disrobing.

“No reason both can’t be true,” Madara replies cheekily. 

Squawking, Izuna wriggles his way out from between Tobirama’s arms, flapping wildly and knocking a feathered knee against his forehead in his haste to sit up. “Wait, that’s not fair. I haven’t seen our marks yet!”

Because they’ve been too wrapped up in quaffing each other like gluttons.

Warbling a strange series of notes, Madara tucks his fingers between Tobirama’s thighs and hips, easing him back into seiza. “Do you deserve to, Otouto?” he asks, voice dropping another octave. The nest dips down under his weight as he lifts his wings high and stalks around Tobirama on hands and knees.

Seeing his mates bare for the first time is a practice in restraint. For all that his cock dribbles of its own accord, Tobirama manages to dig his claws deep into his own fur and keep from succumbing to the command to take what is on offer.

Black feathers shimmer down Madara’s legs, wreathing his thighs in the trappings of midnight and stopping just shy of his knees. The arrangement only accentuates the rippling power that Tobirama already knew was there—sheets of muscle meant for propulsion bunching under a latticework of pale skin and scars. Of all the tengu he’s seen, Madara is the only one that looks the part of the ferocious predator the humans so fear.

Funny how kitsune tend towards thickness and height when the bauplan looks so much better with sharp talons and a knife’s edge smile.

Izuna sputters, slapping softly at Madara’s shoulders, his chest, when he pushes Izuna down to steal a kiss of his own. This is where their experience shows the most. It’s in the almost instantaneous give, the complete submission that comes with knowing precisely how to take each other apart. Any further complaint is devoured by a skillful mouth.

For a brief moment, Tobirama reverts to wondering if his presence here is an intrusion, but then Madara pulls away and both brothers look to him like prey, like something they want to consume.

“Since Izuna doesn’t deserve anything nice right now—”

“Hey!”

“—I’ll be the one to model for you, Koibito,” he croons, tail feathers spreading even as his wings finally fold in against his back. It takes some maneuvering and another round of empty complaints, but in the end, Izuna is bullied into reclining against the side of the nest like a lord with Madara on his lap, back to chest and legs spread to either side.

They’re so comfortable together. Even with the playacted grumbling, Izuna can’t hide the way he glows under his brother’s trust—the tranquil acceptance of Madara’s fingers blindly carding back through his hair to unbind it.

For someone who has never experienced the stirrings of physical attraction from something so commonplace as nudity, they’re insurmountably striking.

“Why do tengu wear clothing when this is what hides beneath?” Tobirama asks, shifting forward to kneel in the space provided for him. “Or perhaps your beauty is precisely why you must wear garments.”

Izuna chirps in amusement, butting his temple against Madara’s. “Pretty much. If the world knew what we looked like we’d have yōkai scratching on our perch at all hours.”

It’s a joke, obviously, but the thought doesn’t sit well with Tobirama’s instincts. “If their advances are uninvited, then they will lose those appendages,” he states. Desperate to avoid the raised eyebrows, he dips down to nuzzle Madara’s chest where his upraised arms stretch him out fully for the taking. The bloom of mate-smell is overwhelming so close and only grows the further down he goes. By the time he reaches the dip under Madara’s sternum, the burn of embarrassment has passed and he finds that he has to ground himself in taste or risk becoming drunk on pheromones.

Madara groans, long and heartfelt at the feel of his tongue. “So, I’m sure you’ve noticed that tengu aren’t the same…down there,” he manages between breaths.

Eloquent.

But yes, there are marked differences between them—Tobirama male in the way of a kitsune tod and the brothers smooth between their legs with the exception of where the feather down grows dark and moist. Strange how Tajima claimed dimorphic gender wasn’t a trait of tengu.

He pauses in his exploration to look up, ears swiveling to the sides. “Yes, I have a cock and the both of you are vixens. One would expect there to be superficial differences and your sex is hardly off-putting.”

There’s a long, quiet moment where they all simply stare. When Izuna turns to bury his sputtered laughter in Madara’s hair, Tobirama knows he’s missed something monumental.

Warm palms cup his cheeks, pulling him in to accept Madara’s kiss and ease the flare of discomfort.

“We’re not vixens.”

Still grinning, Izuna takes one of Tobirama’s hands and guides him to gently fondle the apex of Madara’s thighs. The down is near sodden and together they press along that line of heated flesh to sink into what Tobirama can only describe as Inari’s flame. Madara’s slit is as hot and consuming as any forest fire, clutching at his and Izuna’s fingers, contracting and sucking them in down to the second knuckle.

Expectant and avaricious.

Tobirama’s cock twitches at the feel, the scent, the sensation—all of it overwhelming despite the fact that they’ve done nothing more intimate than this. 

“Ah,” Madara grunts as he cants his hips up to take them as deeply as possible. “Perfect. Just like that.”

“This hardly disproves my observation,” Tobirama reminds him, straining not to add more fingers, Izuna’s cock, his own. Imagining the softness of his mate’s body swallowing around him has his lips peeling back, his tails whipping wildly behind him.

“Indra’s balls, give me a second and I’ll show you. As impatient as Izuna…”

Again, Izuna trills in amusement and encourages their combined fingers to curl, slow and mindful of their respective talon and claw. “Just ignore him. He gets prickly when he really likes something. But here, he won’t be able to comment if you do it like this,” he urges, showing Tobirama a new angle, then reclaiming his hand to thoroughly lick his finger clean.

Tobirama continues with enough curiosity and enthusiasm for them both. And how can he not? Madara’s reactions are lovely—sweat beading on his brow, eyelids fluttering as his head drops back on his brother’s shoulder. A judicious application of teeth at the base of his throat wins a shaky thrust of his hips to meet Tobirama’s hand. There’s little mystery to sex, certainly not enough to warrant his mates’ caution, Tobirama finds.

This is simple. Overwhelming reward with little effort.

“Oh, you already have his feathers lifting! Won’t be long, now,” Izuna announces, immediately followed by a gruff “shut-up, Otouto.”

Whatever they’re talking about comes secondary to just how pliant Madara’s slit is, accepting another finger, two more. Tobirama could luxuriate in the tension and wet stretch for hours, he thinks. Then, a particularly enthusiastic buck has him shifting sideways to avoid Madara’s talons. Lovely. So very lovely in the throes of passions.

His pale cheeks darken well past pink to a patina of lavender only a few shades lighter than an orchid. The unfurling of his center is equally as potent, though Tobirama can’t tear his eyes away from that handsome, well-formed face to look.

“Hey, Tobi, Nii-san is gorgeous, I get it, but you should watch what’s about to happen.” Izuna urges him back just enough and follows the motion of Tobirama’s hand with his hawk’s gaze, never straying from where white disappears into black. He’s expectant, anticipatory. It’s in the clench of his arms, the breaths that come quicker with each passing second—subtle under Madara’s labored gasping.

Suddenly, Madara clenches down around Tobirama’s fingers. He arches up between them both as if struck, hissing through clenched teeth. His hands fly to the sheets he so loves. Fabric tears. A flood of slick eases the way for Tobirama’s hand then there’s the sensation of something moving, growing against his fingers. With only Madara’s pained groan as warning, a tapered, pink cock erupts forth from his slit, wrapping around Tobirama’s wrist as he continues to pump in awe.

Not vixens, then. Not a tod, either. Both, perhaps? Neither?

The fluid spilling on his forearm in spurts glitters brighter than ambrosia in the sunlight and smells twice as sweet. He wants to taste it—devour it from the source. “You both are like this?” he asks hopefully, still coaxing out sounds of passion, eyes wide.

As Madara’s writhing grows desperate, Izuna firmly guides his wrist away with a smile. “Yep,” he hoots. “If you can get Nii-san that worked up already, I don’t think we have anything to worry about. That,” he licks his lips while shifting his gaze to Tobirama’s neglected, but fully erect cock, “is going to work just fine. The only question is who gets it first?”

“You’re still being punished, you get nothing,” Madara pants. He snaps his teeth good-humoredly at his brother’s chin from where he’s slid down his chest, languid and boneless in the aftershocks of orgasm.

“Like hell I do,” Izuna retorts, pecking the tip of Madara’s nose. “You got to come first, so now  _ I _ deserve something nice.”

“Oh, I’ll give you something nice, brat.”

“If you’re offering…” Smile full of teeth, Izuna gets a solid grip on Madara’s hips and rolls them in one neat, well-practiced motion, slow enough that Madara could refuse if he really wanted to.

The playfulness between them is something Tobirama will never be able to drink his fill of. They’re so achingly fond of each other—comfortable in knowing that their bodies, hearts, and souls are safe and looked out for. Even here, with the impetus to mate and breed filling the aerie, they take the time to telegraph their intentions and make sure there’s a mutual agreement to continue. Open communication is not a kitsune’s forte, but Tobirama is starting to see its merits. 

“Damn you,” Madara snarls, though his back arches for Izuna unresisting. His thighs spread wide in presentation even as his tail feathers are manhandled out of the way. Light catches the wetness of him, illuminates his glistening cock as it hangs listless and satiated under him, but not still.

Tobirama licks at taste of Madara on his own fingers, spellbound by the way Izuna presses down on their mate’s shoulder blades, arms outstretched and bulging with restraint. His hips snap forward seemingly of their own volition. A solid slap and neither of them speak but for choked gasps.

Muscle clenches visibly under the feathers framing Izuna’s buttocks. The air grows warm. Kinetic.

“You’re so wet,” he whistles once he has his breath back.

Is Izuna already mounted? Is that what it means when Madara calls out like he’s dying—when his wings snap wide and beat at the air fruitlessly? Tobirama didn’t finger Izuna into releasing his cock, he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening or how, but then Izuna pulls back and shows him where they’re already connected.

His cock is darker—a deep violet and just as delicate in the way its broad root tapers to a pretty, pink tip. Tobirama’s own is that of any kitsune, long, red, and rigid, thickest in the middle. So very different. Funny how the dissimilarities of their make attract so strongly. He can hardly wait to be allowed to push in and feel their slits clench around his knot even as the base of their cocks writhe against his scrotum.

Tobirama licks his incisors and pushes back the imagining that makes his mouth water.

Izuna smiles over his shoulder. “This is where it gets fun,” he says with a wink. The hoshi no tama of his earring glows as the tomoe in his eyes begin to spin languidly at first, then faster. “Come on over. I bet this is something you haven’t seen before.”

Tobirama hasn’t seen any of it. No, that’s not true, he’s observed others mating with morbid curiosity, but he’s never been so  _ present _ . It’s all so overwhelming—the ache in his loins, the sheer flood of emotion clawing out from the inside in a bid to escape. He wants these two yōkai more than he’s ever wanted anything and in a strange twist of fate, he has them. He’s allowed their bodies and their love, their regard and their time. This is his now, he thinks not for the first time. And like that first time, it fills him with a sense of belonging deeper than a mountain’s roots.

Could there possibly be a kitsune more favored by Inari’s grace than him?

Swallowing past the growing tightness in his throat, Tobirama shuffles close. He strokes Izuna’s back and follows the curve of his waist down to card through the contour feathers of his thighs. They feel the exact same as Madara’s, slick and well-oiled. They’re far greater treasures than any Tobirama has ever collected in the forest. To think that he’s been given his own personal hoard and pleasure beside—the gem housing his soul was not a fitting enough gift.

He needs to give them more.

Everything.

“Show me,” he rumbles in a voice not his own.

Quivering, Madara reaches under himself and guides his cock back towards Izuna. It’s prehensile and appears to know what is expected without any further input, following the arch of Madara’s palm to twine around and slide up just beneath the base of Izuna’s cock. A short staccato burst of bird song and it finds a home in Izuna’s slit as he looks up to the ceiling and rocks under the strain of keeping himself from thrusting.

“This is how we... Ah.”

Apparently the moist heat that had clenched around Tobirama’s fingers is ten-fold as consuming stretched and filled by something with girth.

“We do—do both at th—ah—same time if you want to—ah—try and see if it fits. Shit, Nii-san, you’re going to take it off if you keep on like that.”

“Then stop screwing around and get on with it!” 

There’s no anger in his outburst, that much is obvious, only a frenetic need growing stronger by the moment. Interesting how this ball of frustration and want was the one to curtail their passions last night and guide them into preparatory ‘lessons’ today.

Ridiculous tengu. Though…they all have their eccentricities, Tobirama is finding.

Not unsurprisingly, Izuna rides out his brother’s rebuke just as skillfully as he does his bucking hips. Mesmerizing to watch the way Madara bows to him, falling to his elbows and clutching his hands together, interlaced fingers turning red at the tips. He chokes on another death rattle, pushes back to meet each and every one of Izuna’s lazy thrusts.

This attempt at ‘education’ appears to be nothing of the sort, but Tobirama doesn’t mind. Their pleasure is an artwork in motion. 

“Can you make him orgasm again like this so soon?” he asks, nostrils flaring at the growing scent of citrus.

His question has Madara flipping his hair and snarling under the thick curtain of it. “He had better fucking not.” Again, the empty threat is belied by how eagerly his body betrays him—sweat dripping down his sides just as fluid begins to leak from where they both join.

“ I sure can,” Izuna sing-songs breathily, more to egg Madara on than to instruct Tobirama. It’s effective, if not in the way Izuna probably intends.

“If your not going to stop running you mouth, that’s all the lesson you’re giving, brat.”

Rocking forward, Madara abruptly disengages from their coupling only to drop to one hip and glare up from beneath his haphazard bangs. He lifts a leg in slow motion—opening himself wide for Tobirama’s appreciation—and shoves Izuna back with a well-placed kick to the chest.

It’s the softest, most impotent strike Tobirama has ever seen.

Head tilted and ears perking forward, he breaks Izuna’s dramatic, backward fall, playacted though it is. Whether by coincidence or design, it deposits Izuna on his lap, putting him in the perfect position to line up and frot his cock between Izuna’s legs and along the swollen lips of his slit, the underside of his seeking cock. He’s wet, too, heartbeat pulsing along the thickness of Tobirama’s shaft where it peeks up from between his thighs.

All it would take is to pull back and angle his hips just right to catch at the furnace of his unmaking. One thrust and he would be housed and held. The way Izuna arches into him to urge him towards exactly that isn’t lost on Tobirama, even as inexperienced as he is.

“Can you please shut him up for me? It’s been a hundred years and I’ve only found the one way,” Madara drawls as he takes up Izuna’s prior position, reclined against the pillows and gently coaxing his cock to wrap around his fingers and wrist in serpentine curls. The whole of him is lethargic, satisfied. 

Maybe he did orgasm twice in sequence with little more than a dozen expert thrusts? Perhaps the brothers are just  _ that _ in tune with each other’s needs? Tobirama can’t tell despite how badly he wants to. His breath comes faster and each lungful is filled with the potency of mate scent.

“And don’t bother being careful,” Madara continues, dragging teeth across his bottom lip, “Indra knows he can take it no matter how much he whines.”

Izuna looks up at him, all coquettish invitation. “It’s true. I just like to be loud.”

It’s an honest insight that Tobirama appreciates and an opportunity he won’t pass up. He is not so poor a shrine attendant to ignore a request, worded like a command yet bearing the trappings of a prayer. Izuna’s taste is finer than any tofu dish, his look more lovely than jade trinkets. The inferno in Tobirama’s chest lights anew, giving birth to literal kitsune fire along his forearms. Izuna doesn’t seem to mind, though, only gathers his legs under him and helps Tobirama lift him up by the waist until they’re lined up.

Warm lips spread around the tip of him so slowly it feels like the beginnings of a kiss. Then, Izuna drops his weight all at once and Tobirama’s world falls apart.

Nothing could have prepared him for this sudden connection. The wholeness is too much to bear, threatens to tear him up the middle and spill his heart for all to see.

Izuna must feel the same if the strong arch of his spine and the quivering tension is anything to go by. Muscle group by muscle group, he eases himself into the cradle of Tobirama’s hips, unmoving and breathing through his teeth. “Oh,” he cheeps simply once settled fully. 

‘Oh’, indeed. Tobirama has never felt more alive than to be sheathed in the body of a mate, his future. The welcoming burn, the constriction around his most intimate part—he might not survive this in the end, but it will be a death well worth having.

“You are,” he tries, chest hitching when Izuna shifts, “you both are,” a choked pause, “ _ everything _ .”

A rolling trill, caught and sung in sequence by two throats has him dropping his forehead to rest on Izuna’s shoulder. “Please,” he whispers, not knowing what he’s pleading for.

Fortunately, Izuna does. With the echo of song in his soul, he flexes his steel-cord thighs and picks himself up just enough to slide along Tobirama’s shaft in a wickedly slick glide. Barely before the air has a chance to caress their shared pleasure, he houses Tobirama in his heart and wreaths him in flame once more.

There has never been so sweet a divinity.

Tobirama tries to push up to meet him on instinct, but it’s arrhythmic and uncoordinated. It’s impossible to think through the clarion call of Izuna’s body pressed so close and bound so tight. Inari preserve him. The room wavers in his periphery as he chases that feeling time and time again.

“Easy,” Madara croons, forgoing touching himself in favor of sitting up. “Just let Izuna do the work, love, all you have to do is relax.”

‘Love’. His mate called him ‘ _ Love’ _ . It’s one thing to guess, another to be told outright.

Tobirama cries out and bites down on the junction of Izuna’s neck to ground his surging chakra. A bloom of copper, a whirlwind of flame, and his arms lock around Izuna’s chest, holding him tight. He opens up their connection through his soul stone and maps his mate’s body. There’s not a single aspect they don’t share, no secret left undiscovered, and Tobirama wants them all.

He memorizes the construction of Izuna’s womb even as he slams up against it from below. It won’t be difficult to replicate—the flesh and fire is already so similar to his own. Time loses meaning as it coalesces in his loins and all he can feel is pleasure surging with each desperate thrust.

It’s not quite clear whether he’s about to spill or die from the swell of inevitable release, but then there are firm hands guiding him down and keeping him from breaking. His back hits the nest to be enveloped by silk and a burst of scent from the family he now calls his own, their down cushioning his fall in a sense both literal and figurative.

When his hearing returns, it’s to the sound of Izuna half-sobbing an intertwined litany of expletives and praises and Madara whispering comforts to them both.

Tobirama allows his embrace to falter at Madara’s urging, blinks blearily towards the sunlit vents in the ceiling. He had been so close. It almost hurts to have that taken away, even if only for a moment. Izuna, panting, shuffles off of his lap to rearrange his legs and tails more comfortably.

Tobirama could sleep like this—limbs and tails outstretched like a seven-armed starfish—if not for the steady thrum of want still making his stomach clench and teeth ache. A hand on his forehead and even that small tension leaves him.

“Slower this time,” Madara intones, voice rougher than Tobirama has ever heard it. “None of us are going to last, and that’s okay, but I’m going to blow up this mountain and everything under Indra’s eye if you two aren’t in me when you come the first time.”

If a handful of moments spent hilted in Izuna were enough to nearly unmake Tobirama, he can only imagine what it will feel like working in tandem to chase a dream.

“And where would you make our egg, then?” he questions the rafters, not surprised to note the slight slur at the end of his words. “Where would you give me this gift of life to carry for the three of us?”

Though, given the choice, Tobirama thinks his mountainous roots aren’t quite so rigid as he thought a day ago.

“Fuck,” Madara growls with feeling. His wings stretch wide to hover over them as his knees rest to either side of Tobirama’s head. The potency of his aura and his figure are overwhelming so near. It’s impossible for Tobirama to resist tilting his head back and straining his tongue to reach that delicate cock and worship it until cherry blossom pink darkens under his kisses.

Pulsing with his very same heartbeat, it stretches forward to seek out the benediction of his mouth, so obviously in tune with his wishes. Madara, however, denies them both the joy of new discovery. Instead, he holds Tobirama down with one hand on his chest and uses it to pivot. He lands heavily astride Tobirama’s hips, facing him, attention split by Izuna’s sudden presence plastered against his back between his wings.

This is good, too. It’s nice having them so close—more wings, more feathers fanning the heat from his skin like the descent of night.

“Tobirama first,” Madara chides his brother gently. “We’re not going anywhere without you, Otouto.”

He slaps Izuna’s hip, then rubs away the sting of his mild rebuke.

In a brief flash of insight, Tobirama realizes that it’s not at all surprising that a tengu who constantly challenges the world for his place in it would mask a need for continual reassurance with bravado. Izuna is a study in extremes—anger, mischief, affection—and so achingly delicate for all his supposed hardiness. Fortunately, Tobirama knows what it is to be alone and will never allow his mates to suffer even the slightest suggestion of it.

“Izuna,” he purrs even as his red gaze follows Madara’s decent. There it is again, that wet, gentle parting around him, as if the pure lands themselves had fallen and taken the form of a tengu’s passion—slower this time. He throws his head back, ears pressed flat to the sheets as he bares his teeth. If Izuna seared around his cock like a lava flow, Madara is that volcano’s center.

Tobirama thinks himself a phoenix for all that he’s reborn in a forge. The feel of Madara is enough to steal whatever air he had rallied into his lungs and Izuna’s hands on his thighs, lifting and spreading them to carve out a hollow of his own are...he doesn’t know what they are. Pain? Promise? Deliverance?

All he knows is that Madara groans when claws and talons intertwine to find purchase around his muscular waist.

All he’s certain of is he will die happier than he ever was in life with Izuna’s cock winding its way up into their mate to join him in breeding an existence into being. Like this, they are kami in their own right.

“Izuna,” a gasp, “Madara—”

Madara visibly shudders when he takes them both fully—sitting on a throne of flesh with his eyes half lidded and flashing red, red, red. The stretch of his slit is barely sufficient to devour Tobirama’s deflated knot, much less the added girth as it begins to take form. 

Kind, generous Izuna snaps his hips forward so hard Madara falls into Tobirama’s embrace, breathing like a bellows against his neck. It’s telling how far gone he is already by the lack of grumbling, the near silent acceptance of being cherished between them. And again, Izuna shows them both what it means to shake apart.

He squeezes Tobirama’s cock with his own in time with his pistoning hips—slow at first, then gaining in confidence and speed. They’re all so slick. There’s no friction to be had, only a pleasure so intense it blinds Tobirama to everything but the bright point of hands caressing his face, lips on his jaw and another pair on his wrist.

Sweet. So unyieldingly sweet. His paws slide in silk as he tries to find purchase and rise with Izuna’s rhythm only to falter beneath it. That’s okay. Instead, he holds Madara against his chest and allows Izuna to guide them both.

Sheets shift. The ceiling rocks. Waves of pleasure continue to crash over him as time stills.

Madara cries out once more, louder this time. His cock lashes where it’s trapped between their stomachs and spurts so much release that it spills over onto the bedding. He shudders through his death throes, safe in Tobirama’s embrace.

The smell, the feel, the murmured appreciation—it’s all too much. Tobirama buries breathy little ‘ahs’ against Madara’s temple as his knot finally begins to catch. He can hardly hear, can hardly see past the mounting precipice of orgasm. There’s too much sensation closing in all at once to parse it out separately.

That hawk’s cry could have been Izuna at the added pressure, or Madara as he miraculously manages the stretch.

Either way, no sweeter song has ever been sung.

“Shit,” Izuna groans. His face is twisted in concentration, brow furrowed where tendrils of hair cling to his forehead. He lets go of his brother’s waist in favor of slamming down to his fists on either side of them. His cock steadily coaxes Tobirama’s knot to fullness until he’s unable to thrust any longer—until they’re all so thoroughly tied Tobirama can’t tell where he ends and the others begin.

In a word,  _ paradise _ .

Unrelenting, Izuna works the prehensile length of himself along Tobirama’s interred shaft, bullies back those clenching walls to stroke the sensitive spot beneath his glans. A single flick and he’s felled completely.

The room closes in and Madara’s lips fall on his own to devour the long, drawn out howl he can no longer contain. 

“That’s it, Sweetheart,” Izuna warbles, “don’t hold back.”

As if there was any other option. Pulse after pulse of come fills his mate, so much that it has nowhere to go but to backflow past his knot and inundate the sheets. The sound. Inari, the sound of their passion is like a crashing suiton—wet, massive, and powerful beyond measure. 

After what feels like hours, Tobirama empties his knot and his soul alongside. He feels empty in the best of ways, laughing breathlessly against Madara’s mouth because that just means there’s more space for his mates to fill. 

Tobirama swallows, falling back to the bedding as he fights for air. “Mmm, what about ‘Zu—” His words falter on a last, belated twitch of his cock. It’s softening, he can feel it, and only hopes that Madara and Izuna allow them to stay connected as long as possible. He never wants to leave this body, this nest, this life.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I was just waiting until I had a little more space,” Izuna croons gently, leaning down to drag his teeth across Madara’s heaving ribs.

“Otouto, don’t you  _ dare _ .”

“‘Don’t I dare’ what, Nii-san?” he peeps back. As if on cue, his cock pulses ominously, wraps Tobirama’s length up tight and starts to pull back out inch by sodden inch.

Tobirama shudders under the new assault of sensation.

“Izuna,  _ no _ ,” Madara snarls right up against Tobirama’s throat.

Izuna laughs. “Izuna,  _ yes _ .” Then he begins thrusting anew and Tobirama is not ashamed to admit he screams himself hoarse by the time they’ve all come again.


	26. Madara's POV

Madara yawns, content in the life he can already feel taking root in his womb. It won’t be long now before his dreams are realized in the roundness of Tobirama’s stomach. They’re going to be a family—no longer oddities leading their flock while outstripping it in the same breath. 

Tobirama has enough fire in him to keep up. Hell, in some ways Madara and Izuna have already shifted into their polestar’s draft to maintain  _ his _ comet-trail pace.

It would be comical how quickly they’ve all fallen together if it didn’t feel so right.

Beside him, Izuna stirs. Even freshly mated, he’s never been one to sleep well or often in the daytime.

“You’re finally up,” he chirps, greeting Madara with the birdsong he loves most. “Thought for sure we fucked you into a coma.”

And, oh, Madara wants to bat that self-satisfied grin right off of his otouto’s face, but his arms are as leaden as the rest of him. Surely that’s the only reason he trills and lips at Izuna’s bangs instead. They’re stiff with salt and the remnants of exertion, and add a distinct flavor to the soft, languid kiss that follows. 

Here, embraced by his egg-brother and the warm shaft of sunlight from above, Madara has never felt more gratified. The leagues of battle and blood to make it to this point weren’t exactly worth it—no loss of life will ever be something to celebrate—but he finds himself no longer quite so embroiled by the guilt of his choices. As much as they’ve all suffered, the future will be different now.

No matter his father’s penchant for trouble making, Madara will see to it that this peace holds. 

For Izuna. For Tobirama. For their unhatched chicks.

Stretching just to feel the pull of fatigued muscle, Madara arches into the pop of his shoulders and wing joints before languidly collapsing back into Izuna’s arms. Limbs and feathers tangle together in a haphazard pile and he can’t be bothered to parse out what belongs to whom. It’s nice to be so carefree—to enjoy their company without reservation.

“Mmm, love you,” Izuna cheeps, lips brushing Madara’s chin as he speaks. 

Madara closes his eyes and rumbles as he relearns the joy of Izuna’s heartbeat housed against his own. He strokes his talons through that beloved hair, only to linger on the gentle glow of Tobirama’s token—a lovely interplay of coverts and kitsune magic. 

“Love you, too, Tobirama,” Izuna announces for the both of them, though his voice is muffled by skin.

Only then Madara realizes that the weight slung across his waist is twice as heavy as usual. The body fitted between his wings is taller than what he’s accustomed to, soft fur and sharp angles. Again, the sensation of inherent rightness makes his stomach flip with emotion so strong he thinks he’s falling…flying.

“We do,” he affirms. No more powerful truth has ever been voiced.

Purring low, Tobirama flexes his arm as he sidles close in the nest they’ve all but destroyed.

With how fervently they slotted together in every possible permutation, there was going to be collateral damage. The sheets can be replaced, though, Madara ruminates with a crooked smile. His brooding instinct has waned for the time being, replaced by contentment in the hot line of kitsune fire against his back and tengu wind plastered to his front.

Here he lies straddling two worlds like a colossus and lovingly chained by them both.

Inari’s balls, when did he get so Sapphic? It must have been the third screaming orgasm.

He snorts and rolls his eyes where no one can see him.

“Were you able to nap?” he asks, flicking his tail feathers where they’re pinned between Tobirama’s thighs.

Tobirama grunts and buries his face in Madara’s hair, rooting around until he can leisurely groom his nape.

The bruises there are spectacular and it’s embarrassing how quickly that bolt of pleasure laced with pain has Madara wondering if his stalwart constitution can take another round of lovemaking. Probably not without forgoing the ability to walk after.

Disappointing.

A final bite, harder than the rest, has him gasping and jerking his hips despite himself. Then Tobirama pulls back to kiss the back of his shoulder with a smirk he can feel.

“No, I did not doze. If I were to succumb to the lethargy, there would be the possibility of waking and realizing that this was all a dream. I don’t think I would survive that breaking, and so I resolve to never sleep again,” Tobirama rasps in a voice long since taken by the throes of passion.

“Mmm…” Madara hums in satisfaction. Their soulmate is an undiscovered poet as well, it seems. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, Koibito. Izuna is enough of a pain in the tail feathers to prove this is all real.”

He prods his brother’s shin with a talon just to make the lilting barb stick.

Because he’s an unrepentant brat, Izuna does nothing more than huff and shove off to flop away onto his stomach. He looses a series of unintelligible grumbles into the bedding that don’t even process over the siren call of his shapely ass.

Madara reluctantly rolls away from the temptation in a series of lazy gymnastics to meet Tobirama’s equally half-lidded gaze, returning that reserved smile with a fondness of his own. 

A pale eyebrow rises. “Pain will anchor us in this reality, you say,” Tobirama repeats, pretending to consider the matter as they share breath. “I suppose I’ll simply have to seek reassurance in your brother’s conversation if I ever feel my certitude waning.”

Clever, kitsune. Such a fantastic, well-spoken  _ asshole _ . 

The laugh starts in Madara’s belly and rises up without a second thought. It feels so good to revel in the rolling waves as they make his eyes water and his chest hitch. Tobirama joins him only a moment later and the sound of precious little fox yips is too sweet not to chase to its source. 

They both continue to snort and sputter between kisses, and, while Izuna tries his best not to join in their amusement too obviously, the air vibrates with his resonant joy.

  
  


“See if I ever do that thing with my tongue for you two again,” he mutters between restrained chortles, faking affront and flicking his wing rudely against Madara’s in emphasis.

The act only lasts as long as Tobirama’s fingers stay buried in the contour feathers along Madara’s spine. As soon as they wander down further, past the swell of muscle above his hip to stroke along the divot leading to more interesting things, Izuna is on them.

Cooing another of his ridiculous pigeon songs, Izuna scrambles over Madara’s wings and shoves his head right up under his and Tobirama’s interlaced arms. The ensuing struggle is the stupidest thing grown tengu have ever been caught doing. For all his skill in grappling, Izuna forgoes it in favor of wriggling provocatively and snapping at Madara’s fingers when they get too near. Tobirama’s get suckled and isn’t that a treat to watch, as unfair as it is.

“Knock it off, brat!” Madara protests even as he angles his pelvis just right to catch his brother’s hips and plant them there. The screams he’s won in this exact position—where they’ve managed to simultaneously be in and around each other—resonate in the aerie to this day.

“Not giving me very good incentive!” Izuna chirps like the absolute bastard he is. Then Tobirama’s knee is there, parting Izuna’s thighs and opening him up as easily as breathing.

For a creature who has never had sex, he’s a quick study. His pheromones already elicit a Pavlovian response.

“Fuck,” Madara hisses. “We’re going to be so late.” Because, yes, there are actually other things for clan heirs and political centerpieces to be doing this afternoon. Not that he can focus on a single one that matters. His otouto is a lightning bolt captured between them and Madara wonders not for the first time if it’s possible to make him lose his voice permanently given enough incentive.

Tobirama’s eyes glow for a brief second just as a ripple of concentrated chakra sweeps out and away. The sheets billow around them, still damp and sticky, then he comes alive once more. All of that wicked kitsune strength latches onto Madara’s waist and sandwiches the three of them together so wholly they’re pretty much one yōkai with three bodies and a singular heart.

His voice rolls over them like thunder, heralding the mounting storm of passion already half-realized. “Your father is exceedingly amused over something, his minder is complicated, the remaining members of your retinue are enjoying the lantern making whilst pretending not to be invested, and your chicks are complicit in whatever mischief the kits have planned. They’re all fine and our absence has not been remarked by anyone who matters. We have time,” he concludes, doing something that makes the nest shift and Izuna’s eyes roll towards the ceiling.

“Good to know. Don’t care!”

Funny how Izuna can so concisely express a sentiment they all seem to share.

The follies of youth, Madara supposes.

Then he recalls how perfectly their puzzle pieces fit into place and he stops thinking altogether.


	27. Hikaku's POV

Hikaku searches for deliverance in the canopy above and whispers a prayer in thanks for the immodesty of Inari’s children. Otherwise, there would probably be a war over the state of their second heir’s arrival.

There still might be if Tajima doesn’t stop clapping.

“Look at my chicks, Hikaku. I’ve never been more proud of the prowess of my lineage,” he coos low as if he’s not already making a spectacle of, well, everything.

May Inari strike down all hormone-addled younglings if only to spare Hikaku the pain of  _ knowing _ .

Izuna’s courting haori has wrinkles in the silk deeper than a Shar Pei spirit’s jowls. The silver embroidery is creased, the pelt itself set askew on broad shoulders stained red and purple where teeth found a home. Several homes that just had to be above the collar line. 

Tobirama’s appearance gives the overall effect of a mauling despite the untouchable austerity in his posture.

He’s not fooling anyone. 

And the way Izuna high steps with fanned feathers and matching mating marks isn’t exactly helping matters.

Kitsune elders are apparently immune to gawking the way tengu decidedly aren’t. Ears twitch, eyes catalogue, but other than that, they go right back to their task of preparing the rice-paper lanterns for their night’s sojourn. Only Butsuma’s gaze lingers, and even then just long enough for a flash of anger to flare and fizzle out in his chakra before turning to guide Kawarama’s ink-stained paws onto the paper instead of his kimono. The kit yaps in excitement at the first paw print, completely oblivious to Hikaku’s suffering.

Inhaling sharply, Hikaku shoves his fist between Tajima’s hands to stop the standing ovation whose every clap feels like a nail in the proverbial coffin. 

“You would silence me?” Tajima asks in affected offense. He swallows Hikaku’s fist between his palms and closes the distance between them, white eyes intense. “They deserve these accolades. As do you for your impeccable tutelage, without which I’m afraid my boys would never have figured out their slit from a tree burl.”

Not for the first time, Hikaku wonders why he and his mate ever allowed such a crass tengu into their nest. Tajima needs to be muzzled for the health and wellbeing of yōkai everywhere. 

Using the advantage of their closeness, he gently knocks foreheads and trills as he captures a lock of hair with his lips.

It’s an inexcusably light rebuke for words so heinous, but there will always be a special affection reserved for this... No. That’s not right. Even in his thoughts Hikaku can’t malign the tengu whose will has helped guide and shape him.

“You need to have your mouth occupied at all times,” he grunts under his breath instead. Though, he realizes his mistake as soon as the words are voiced.

“Oh? Has my younglings’ show of sexual fervor whetted your own appetites, my dear? A pity my knees ache so on hard surfaces. Perhaps we should retire to the forest? Though, I do recall the inner shrine having a delightful spread of pillows set up near their holy pool that might serve as a better option.” He lights up under a seemingly guileless grin, all coquettish charm and innuendo. “Don’t concern yourself with the lack of propriety; kitsune are exhibitionists as a rule.”

Lifting his wings and snapping them back down not a second later, Hikaku retrieves the small bottle of sake he had tucked into his obi as a shrine offering for later—fermented foxglove made sweeter by honey and time. He figures the kami will be more pleased with its silencing effects than the drink itself.

The cork splits under his talon and Tajima’s eyes flare wide when the mouth of the ceramic bottle is pressed to his face with a warrior’s speed. Pink lips seal dutifully around it and the first swallow sees Tajima finally,  _ blessedly _ silent. He groans, long and heartfelt as his throat bobs a second time.

“There. Keep out of trouble,” Hikaku sighs, cuing Tajima to take over holding the bottle and pulling away. He receives a very knowing wink, but not a peep of protest. 

Finally, Hikaku is free to ignore the world around him in favor of perusing the lanterns laid out across the chabudai that serve as the gathering point for their meals. There are so many creations that they spill off of the edges of the table, littering the ground in a vast array of artful kanji and the blotchy tracks of diminutive hands and paws.

Kagami’s inky little bird feet are prevalent enough on the lanterns to gauge just how much he’s enjoying his own role in their making. Hikaku nods his head respectfully towards Senju Ichariba, who sports those very same footprints across her white silk kimono with its filmy layers of gauze. If she weren’t also wearing kit paw tracks across her shoulders, Hikaku would have stopped to offer a formal apology.

As it is, he settles for a small bow and takes his leave, repeating the process for Senju Shippō and again to a wizened elder with fur mottled like a mountain peak whose name he can’t recall. Busuma’s eyes follow his progress through the gathering with intent.

Hikaku has no idea what he’s done to earn this simmering fury he can feel itching like mites under his coverts, but he keeps his stride steady and his wings tucked close until he’s through the treeline.

It’s loud here in the oncoming dusk—noisy in the way of peace. Katydids and toad calls fill the spaces not occupied by the rise and fall of laughter in the near distance. The air still holds the crispness of an early spring and with it comes the scent of roasting venison and pork, seasoned with the sweet overlay of kaki and undertones of late-harvest citrus. Dinner is meant to be extravagant tonight, he’s told, hence the bizarre broth rituals of the morning and midday meals. 

Cleansing of the body in preparation for the soul to…do something. Being unfamiliar with kitsune beliefs, he didn’t quite understand the metaphor. ‘A looking glass to house the moon’. Strange, but not something his warrior’s constitution allows him to linger on.

Tree roots give way to grasses and a breathtaking view of the zenko’s most holy glade. Red and gold light washes the land clean and sets it to shimmering, resplendent in its gentle contours. To his left a strong column of torii bracket the clearing and at its center rests an upraised plinth so glassy it glows.

Hikaku approaches the lone silhouette seated on its edge, careful to give sound to his footsteps without disturbing the tranquility of the evening. Being this far from the lantern procession doesn’t bode well for Senju Hashirama’s state of mind.

Hikaku just tends to be uncomfortable in crowds. 

“Good evening, Senju-sama,” he announces, “may I join you?”

Hashirama stays seated and still on his throne of obsidian with the exception of his more honest tails, which swish back and forth like a sullen metronome. “Please!” he invites, facing forward while attempting to discretely wipe his face. The waterfall of his hair—bound up into an elaborate diadem of cedar and lapis—glimmers with the motion. “I was hoping someone would come by.”

Right.

“Usually when yōkai want company, they don’t hide in the middle of the woods,” Hikaku points out as he takes a seat on the edge and lets his talons dangle. Grass tickles between his toes, soft and sweet.

Another round of laughter rises in the distance, echoed much, much closer. Only then does he realize what Hashirama has been staring at so intently. As the column of torii bends up a hill, Hikaku can make out the shifting figures where Madara, Izuna, and Tobirama have carved out a moment of respite for themselves as well. 

No wonder Hashirama is so unlike himself.

“The launch should be starting any minute now, I think. Do you want me to go get your brother? I won’t be offended if you would rather have him here,” Hikaku asks, testing the waters.

“No!” Hashirama half barks, inhaling and repeating more sedately, “no, thanks. I see Tobi all the time. I wouldn’t want to interrupt him and…well, right now I just want to watch the lanterns. It’s ‘Hikaku’, right?”

Hikaku blinks and tucks his thumbs into the lowest straps of his flying harness—an old habit he’s never grown out of.

“You don’t need to pretend, Senju-sama. I’ve served the Uchiha main line most of my life. I know when someone is tugging on my tail feathers,” he states, voice flat as he looks to the first lantern rising over the canopy, out-shining the last rays of sunset and flickering in salutations. 

Trying his best to seem at peace, Hashirama follows the lantern’s progress as well until it ascends through the cloud cover. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies cheerfully once there’s no more glow to excuse his lack of a response. “I really am glad to have all of my precious people here together even if they’re not  _ here _ here. And peace is good. Great because now I have even more precious people. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”

So happy that his smile, though picturesque, does little to meet his eyes. There are no laugh-lines, no creases to express that supposed joy. It’s as if Hikaku is observing a lifelike simulacrum of a kitsune navigating the sea of social niceties by reflex.

It’s bizarre to watch a clan head so torn by indecision, he thinks, but maybe not a brother. 

Hikaku sighs.

“Senj—Hashirama, if I may?”

Hashirama doesn’t turn to him, though his closest ear swivels to attention and his tails mellow in their repetitive sway. Good enough. At least the young tod is receptive to what wisdom a tengu of Hikaku’s age and experience can offer.

“My kind doesn’t pretend with these things.” He jerks his head towards the spectacle Madara and Izuna are making as they playfully butt heads and bat at the underside of each other’s wings in the shadow of a massive torii. Tobirama sits in silent repose, a king waiting to see which of his vassals is strong enough to win his hand. Their tender age has never been more apparent than now when they think themselves unobserved.

“Those boys would let the world burn and themselves along with if Tobirama asked.”

Hashirama finally breaks his nonchalant act to eye Hikaku askance. It’s progress, at least. 

He shrugs. “That’s just how we are.”

Behind them, Kawarama yips and pelts out of the treeline to take off across the field, chasing the path of another lantern. The other younglings swiftly follow, making a game out of seeing who can leap the highest and fly the farthest though none of them can even hope to come close to the lanterns they try to catch. 

Hashirama’s expression softens when he sees them, but his words continue to bear hard edges.

“They just met. My otouto doesn’t even know them.”

“But you do.”

Freezing, Hashirama finally twists to face Hikaku with a verdant ring of power taking root where once his eyes were brown. He’s caught and he knows it. Surprise is a beautiful look on him though—with power thrumming in the kitsune marks on his face and eyes so bright they illuminate the strong line of his brow and high cheekbones.

He’d look every bit the son of a forest god if not for the way he chews his inner lip, fidgeting worse than a scolded kit.

Hikaku huffs in exasperation and shakes his head until his bangs fall forward. “You younglings weren’t as clever as you thought,” he continues, pausing to blow an errant strand of hair out of his face. “If you’re family, you can’t take a piss three mountain ranges away without Tajima knowing about it. He kept you three under his wing shadow and let you have your fun because he thought it was cute.”

Not that Tajima’s machinations could ever be so simple. Allowing his sons to play on the metaphorical gangplank—all down-for-brains and not enough sense to stay away from the edge—was an experiment of sorts. He was interested to see if the wide-eyed innocence of younglings raised without hate could bridge the gap he himself had helped gouge out and instead seed the future for peace. Hubris has always been a rather intimate bedfellow of Tajima’s, though he’s never failed to right a wrong in his own obfuscated way. It’s one of his better qualities.

And while his moral compass could do to be a little stronger, his internalized sense of duty to those he loves has passed on in the shape of two young tengu with fire in their souls.

Hikaku absently pats Hashirama’s thigh—a father’s reassurance. 

“Madara and Izuna may have changed since you saw them last, but their hearts haven’t. They’re still the exact same fools for love and I can promise your brother will be very well cared for.”

“Yeah,” Hashirama yips low as if struggling to be convinced. It takes a moment of stillness for his shoulders to finally slump and his tails to thump against the ground one after the other. Resigned to a future he never foresaw, he mutters “I know Madara is inherently kind. And I know they’re mates and everything. I just hope Tobi doesn’t run off. I don’t want to lose…” His voice thickens and his words stop abruptly.

Oh. This poor kit doesn’t realize…

Hikaku clenches his jaw at the abrupt spike of pain as he spreads his wing in a way that has scar tissue protesting the stretch. Regardless, this is a comfort he would offer Madara and Izuna, so why not this fox as well? He battles past the burn and shrouds Hashirama’s shoulders in a mantle of feathers.

“Stop, Hashirama. You’re not losing a brother, you’re getting two more. I’ve discussed this with Tajima already and he’s in agreement. I’ve dedicated myself to our family and flock my entire life. There’s no reason for me to stop now.”

He lets the implication hang between them and, while Hashirama’s is a sharp mind, he’s still obviously perplexed. This close, Hikaku can feel the way his skin near vibrates with uncertainty. 

Puffing out his contour feathers, Hikaku angles his wing to better cloister their conversation from acute yōkai hearing. “When your father steps down as head, I look forward to working with you, Senju-san,” he chirps, stressing the change in honorific.

Finally, Hashirama understands. Without warning, his chakra billows around them, raising a lush carpet of moss and springtime grasses through the obsidian flagstones. Green fire flares white at its core, but Hikaku feels no heat, no pain. In fact, he’s never felt less pain in his life.

The constant gnawing of an arrow-head embedded in his femur from when he was a fledgling loses its teeth. The silver network of keloids that make his hip tight and leg numb after being seated for too long finally give. And perhaps most telling of all is the itch of molting feathers felt along the bare swath of scar tissue that hasn’t hosted plumage in almost a century. His wings have never felt lighter, his soul never more free. 

Terror and elation fill him in equal measure. What is this kit?

“Tobi’s staying? Madara and Izuna, too? You’re serious?” Hashirama continues as if his joy alone hasn’t rewound the wounds of the past. Yapping in excitement, he leaps up to his paws and pounces in place twice in quick succession before whipping back to face Hikaku. His tails flow out in a wave of luxurious brown fur with the motion, Mito’s soul tail dripping magma into the grout lines of the flagstone.

“They’re really staying?” he asks again, desperate for the only answer that will satisfy.

Hikaku inclines his chin. “They haven’t asked yet, but Tajima says it’s coming. So the answer is ‘yes’, I imagine,” he offers.

Suddenly, the oncoming night blooms with stars as kitsune fire flares bright in the heart of a thousand paper lanterns. So many designs, shapes, aesthetics tied to the comingling of two cultures, harmoniously braided to bring about something more beautiful than either in isolation.

The prayers attached to those lanterns must be powerful for the kami to walk among their fate lines so openly.

A god in his own right, Hashirama’s full smile burns even brighter than the light show above.

“Thank you,” he says, spine straight and bearing proud. Then, chittering louder than a kodama, he leaps from the plinth and lopes towards where Madara and Izuna have somehow managed to wrestle each other to the ground—pulling Tobirama into their chicks’ games. He joins the fray, unexpected and uninvited.

Hikaku rests his elbow on an upraised knee, bracing his chin to watch Izuna screech himself hoarse at the intrusion. They’ll be fine, he thinks. Of anyone, Tajima’s boys deserve this happiness. Leadership has always been something Madara took to naturally, but it was never his passion, not like the torch he bears for family. And Izuna…he should never have been allowed to know the feel of flesh under his talons. 

Battle has taken its toll on Hikaku’s General in a myriad of ways, none of them pleasant.

Now, embraced by the stone roots of the mountain Inari and Indra once shared, they’ll all be able to heal—to find joy and purpose in the more tender gifts life has to offer.

Another piercing cry is immediately followed by Hashirama’s deep, bellowing laughter and Tobirama’s more reserved bark of amusement.

Yes. They’ll be fine.

“Hey, Kawa, Kagami. That looks like way more fun than stupid lanterns!” a young voice pipes up from over Hikaku’s shoulder. A light pattering of paws heralds the slight weight that nonetheless slams against his back like a meteor and uses him as a convenient springboard.

“Let’s go!” Itama yells as his two-toned belly soars over Hikaku’s head.

Hot on his heels, Kawarama slides to a stop in indecision. “Sorry!” he yaps, apologetically nipping a feather, then Hikaku’s warrior’s knot to pull himself up and over in a less powerful leap, but no less impressive for his daring.

Kits, chicks…no matter the species, they’re all the same.

Another clatter behind him has Hikaku glancing over his shoulder to lance the next two perpetrators through with a raised eye-brow. “You know better. Go around, Kagami,” he hoots, immune to the wide eyes and wobbling lip Izuna taught the chick.

“You’re no fun,” Kagami chirps as he puffs up in childish offense. “Come on, Bobble Head, Hikaku-sama is being mean and isn’t playing fair.” Fingers interlaced, he skirts Hikaku’s knee with his kodama in tow, only the spirit looks nothing like it had an hour ago. It blinks slowly with Uchiha black eyes, large and luminous in a chick’s face. A shy wave of its free hand and then it toddles off in Kagami’s gravity on white talon tips.

They help each other down over the edge and take off again.

What the hell?

Echoing his sentiment, Tajima brings up the rear of their little procession—stride long, measured, and as silent as ever. “I have no inkling as to what that wildling is, but it certainly makes Kagami happy,” he announces, coming to stand at Hikaku’s shoulder, arms akimbo. “Though, it would appear finding unparalleled pleasures in the most unlikely of circumstances to be the theme of the evening.”

Hikaku groans, long and heartfelt. “Please, Tajima, I don’t have anymore sake,” he begs, too floored by the shift of the world around him to come up with anything stronger than a plea.

Instead of replying, Tajima sinks down onto his haunches and strokes the patch of new plumage along Hikaku’s wings. He rests his chin on Hikaku’s shoulder and smiles up at him with such gentleness and regard that Hikaku has to look away. For once, his words aren’t a thinly-veiled sexual innuendo or joke.

“Look at them, love. And here you doubted my peace treaty.”

The kits and chicks tumble over their elders like raindrops on a writhing, cursing boulder. Laughter rises and falls, and under it all, a current of contentment fans out to fill the glade.

“I did,” Hikaku answers with an honesty so deep it resonates in bones made hale by a fox’s joy. “But I never once doubted  _ you _ .”

It’s only one of two instances in Hikaku’s lifetime that he’s seen Tajima’s façade broken.

For the first time since his chicks’ egg hatched, he smiles truly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore writing Hikaku's POV. <3


	28. Izuna's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I shared these here, but there were a ton of chibi stickers made for this fic as well. <3
> 
> [Beebro's super cute kitsune!Tobirama](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/632884759771709440/im-dying-but-i-got-it-to-work-sooo-here)   
>  [The main cast as adorable birds and foxes](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/624476371253706752/more-teardrop-moon-stickers-left-to-right)   
>  [Tengu and kitsune chibis](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/624475937767079936/these-are-some-of-the-chibi-stickers-i-made-for)

This is it. This is Izuna’s pinnacle. A tengu warrior in his prime—virile and twice as clever as the bark-brained idiot whose neck may be thick with muscle, but not impervious. Ligament and bone are all the same, all willing to give under a skilled hand. 

And Izuna is nothing if not skilled. 

He was born from a summer’s gale, with lightning in his veins and strength like a thunderclap. Battle is what he knows best, serving as Tajima’s shadow and the shinigami’s hand. All that’s left now is to wind the trailing edges of a green haori around his palms and sink talons in deep until Hashirama falls, choking on the ashes of his own arrogance.

“Whatever method of recompense you’re fantasizing about, it won’t work,” Tobirama interjects smoothly as he strokes a strand of hair from Izuna’s brow. His fingers are light and still redolent with the scent of their mating. 

“Until you’re well versed in the art of sidestepping my Anija’s affections before they take root, your only option is to lie still and pray he grows tired of the game before you succumb to the inevitable suffocation.”

That does seem like the more likely scenario if Izuna is honest with himself—something he tries not to be when his pride is at stake. Though, he’ll admit, lying flat on his back with his wings forcibly pressed open under not only his weight, but that of an overgrown kitsune tod isn’t the easiest position to overcome. The rise and fall of Hashirama’s deep laughter against his chest is the only reason his blood continues to pump past the tourniquet arms wrapped around his middle.

Uchiha Izuna’s final stand. At least he’ll die having known Tobirama’s taste.

“However, if you would prefer to continue breathing, you may also ask for assistance from a mate more intelligent and far stronger than yourself. If you can admit to your need, of course,” Tobirama continues, bridging the dark, yawning chasm in a single sentence and deepening it all the same.

Izuna is a fortunate tengu, he truly is. Not one, but two glorious mates serve as the epicenter around which his world now revolves. He wouldn’t exchange them for anything. He only wonders why they both have to be such  _ assholes _ . 

Lashing out with his feet, he tries one last time to loosen the iron wood arms wrapped around his chest on his own. His wings slam the ground and throw dirt clods up into the air even as he tries to plant his talons and buck Hashirama off. The limpet holds firm, as dense as a tree and twice as heavy, guffawing all the while. A thrice-damned Roc would pose a lesser challenge. 

Regardless, he scores long trenches into the forest floor with each vicious kick, succeeding in little more than using up the last of his air. Buttocks strain with the effort of lifting at the hip, all in vain.

His lungs burn. Darkness encroaches at the edges of his vision. Tobirama’s face wavers, smirk ticking up just a fraction. 

_ Fine _ .

Sucking in a rattling breath, Izuna finally swallows down the shards of his decimated ego along with what feels like a mouthful of Hashirama’s hair. He’ll accept the assistance just this once because submitting to Tobirama could never be a defeat. 

Still, relief doesn’t come no matter how far he tilts his chin back to urge Tobirama to intercede on his behalf. Instead, his gorgeous new mate continues to kneel like a capricious god—regal, silent, and composed—as if his knees aren’t situated to either side of Izuna’s temples and beckoning for him to wriggle just a little closer. Another dozen impossible centimeters and he could be in the perfect position to slant his head back and bury his face between those heavenly thighs—indecent and bared from this angle, still smelling of Madara’s sweetness. 

If he lives that long.

Because mercy has never found a home in Uchiha Izuna’s life, past or present, Tobirama leans forward to stroke the side of his face, down to his jawline, then along the curve of his straining neck. Every shift in position has Tobirama’s thighs inadvertently spreading wider. 

The beautiful bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. He  _ has _ to. 

“Do you need something?” Tobirama asks, voice low and dripping with innuendo. 

Indra’s  _ balls _ . Now that familiar spark of lust that never fully receded is stoked anew and the only body close enough to benefit is Senju  _ Hashi-fucking-rama _ . If the ground could kindly open up and swallow him, Izuna would welcome that passing rather than dying from sheer mortification like he’s about to.

“He told you five minutes ago that all you have to do is beg, Otouto. Might want to start,” Madara’s dry observation floats out from somewhere over Tobirama’s shoulder. 

And now there’s no way Hashirama didn’t feel that reflexive roll of his hips even through his own hiccupping mirth, Izuna thinks, bemoaning his fate. 

“Okay. Begging. Please. Love you.” Izuna mouths just as his cheeks grow warm and the world narrows to center on how Tobirama’s knife-blade smile softens just for him. 

“How could I refuse when you ask so sweetly?” 

With one last gentle stroke of Izuna’s cheek, Tobirama pulls away. Like this—brilliant against the backdrop of the night sky—he emits an ethereal glow not unlike the prayer lanterns themselves. Or maybe that’s the hypoxia speaking. Either way, Izuna is smitten. 

Moving faster than he can follow, Tobirama snatches one of Hashirama’s ears and gives the tip a brutal twist. “Off, Anija,” he orders sharply, a note of mischief in his tone as his brother’s joy cuts off on a shrill, piercing yelp. “I would prefer to keep my mate alive for a while yet. I’ve only just discovered a new facet of his value.”

Then, suddenly, it’s like the shinigami’s hand has been stayed and feeling rushes back into Izuna’s arms so quickly his fingers burn with it. 

“Ow, ow, ow, my ear, Tobi!” Hashirama whines, predatory fangs bared in a grimace more laughable than threatening. “We were just playing,” he continues to whimper and wriggle under the pressure as he pushes up onto his hands and knees at Tobirama’s direction. 

His distraction is all the opening Izuna needs. 

Quaffing the air, he gathers chakra into the soles of his feet and pulls his knees up tight against his chest. There’s no time to react, no way to block the strike with Hashirama still hovering over him so close. Tobirama sucks in a surprised breath and apparently lets go, because when Izuna launches his awful brother-in-bond into the trees, Hashirama still has both ears attached. 

Too bad. 

“We’ll call it a tie,” Izuna rasps as he falls back into leaf litter. The reward for using up what feels like the last of his strength is the sharp cracking of tree limbs, what might be a curse, could be a bark of laughter, and a meaty thump in the near distance. He hopes the impact stung as much as his tattered pride, though he doubts it. Hashirama’s head is too thick to do any lasting damage. 

A kodama appears perched on his knee only long enough to shake its little hand and chitter a rebuke before fading away to be replaced by the night. Good riddance. Now he’ll have to wash that leg to get the ugly off. 

“Why do you keep starting fights you know you’ll lose?” Madara asks, stepping into Izuna’s view, arms crossed and his face no more than a pale slip illuminated by the moonlight. 

Silly Nii-san. “Okay, for one, he started it,” Izuna points out, voice still rough. 

And he did. Hashirama didn’t have to come over and crash their good time—rolling around in the leaves, play-wrestling like chicks and taking pleasure in the fatigue of already well-used muscles. The stupid fox deserved a thorough trouncing. 

Jumping him from behind was just for tactical flavor. 

Madara’s bangs waver on the draft of a heartfelt sigh. “Foxshit—”

Before he can finish whatever very much incorrect observation is about to slip out of his beautiful, lying lips, Izuna cuts him off. “Second,” he caws pointedly, “there’s always the off-chance I’ll  _ win _ .” A chance that, no matter how small, is well worth the repeated embarrassment. 

“Oh? And what do you intend to take for your victory token in the event you succeed?” Tobirama interjects. The unimpressed flick of his tails flashes in and out of Izuna’s periphery, a gray and pink blur. “An empty claim to bolster your ego?”

“Yep! Specifically, the ‘best mate’ award,” Izuna replies without missing a beat, grinning up and batting his eyes coquettishly to hide the unfortunate truth that his answer isn’t a joke. 

Scoffing, Madara forgoes his posturing to viciously rub his face. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, wings dipping as he turns to go help Hashirama sort out his tails.

His brother can hear the words left unspoken. 

Somehow, Tobirama seems to be able to hear them too. 

“An accolade you have already earned and a prize you will always be allowed to claim. Your martial prowess is in no way related to your worth as a mate,” he pronounces as he folds down to nip Izuna’s bared throat.

Izuna jolts under the suggestion of teeth, there and gone far too soon. 

“I rather value your head, your heart, and your slit over the blood you spill.” 

Oh. Okay, then. 

Even for a tengu as shameless as himself, that level of blunt sincerity has a flush rising from Izuna’s neck all the way up to his cheeks in a wave strong enough to feel. He flaps shallowly and wriggles in place, inadvertently inching his way closer to Tobirama’s suspended hem. Maybe he can prove his worth further beneath it? 

But the gates of the pure lands close on him as Tobirama rocks up to his paws at the last second and offers a hand instead. That sly smirk should be criminal. Yet, somehow, an open palm is a sweeter gift than anything Izuna could have wrung out with his tongue.

He smiles as he takes it.

A couple of torii down, indistinct squabbling rises up, interspersed with whines and exclamations of “so mean!” 

Which, yes, that gruffness is part of Madara’s charm. Hashirama should know that by now. Madara is the one unchanging aspect of a world gone mad—a stone set in the midst of a white-capped river. He has the same stalwart constitution as when they were chicks and has now grown into a body large enough to house it. 

Sniping and gentle bullying are his favorite forms of affection much as they’ve always been. Moments of tenderness are strictly reserved for Izuna. For Tobirama. Chicks, too. No one else. 

“It would appear our quiet sanctum is no more,” Tobirama says dryly, flattening his ears against the approaching ruckus. 

His pulse is strong and steady under Izuna’s hand as they clasp forearms. One powerful burst of strength and Izuna is back on his feet, leaning against Tobirama’s chest just for the novelty of being allowed to touch and take his fill. Warmth and light. There’s a graceful collar bone at lip level, and he wastes no time in planting a chaste kiss there, the feather of his earing spinning under Tobirama’s breath. 

“I guess that means we should find another one,” he hums. Tails bracket his thighs just as a loose embrace settles on his waist. 

“The others have made their way to Inari’s dais to guide the prayer lanterns. I would like to add my own before Inari’s favor wanes,” Tobirama grunts, sounding distracted. “After that, however, I would be amenable to your wisdom.”

“Oh?” Izuna tweets, looking up from under his lashes.

Ritual is important to zenko, he’s well aware, but surrounded by strangers isn’t where he wants to be, even with the promise of reward to follow. 

Celebration be damned. To be sheltered between his mates—safe and secure with the world a distant, inconsequential worry—is the only prayer he’ll be sending up tonight and even then, only from his lips. No lantern bears his kanji because no construct of rice paper and sticks will ever compare to the wish that has been seared into his heart. 

“And here I thought you already had all of your prayers answered.” Izuna knows  _ his _ fondest wishes have been granted, at least. 

They’re going to be a family. 

No. They’re already a family, just with the prospect of being a larger one in the future.

Tobirama’s chest jolts under his hands with how hard he huffs a single, expulsive laugh. 

“Despite one particularly loquacious tongue that I wish I had the means to silence,” Tobirama swoops down to nip Izuna’s bottom lip and turn it petal-pink before rearing back out of range, “yes. I have.”

There’s a deep light in his eyes, growing brighter with each heartbeat synchronized between them. 

“This prayer is not for me.”

A gentle caress of his nape…

“It’s for the life our mate now bears within him.”

…and Izuna’s world stops. 

A joke. It has to be. There’s no way the fates would ever be so kind as to give Madara and himself all of the keys to their happiness in one enthusiastic push. Even when it was just Izuna and his brother repeatedly coming together in love, it took so long to conceive that first time. Then the egg bur—wasn’t viable. They only tried twice more after that before giving up altogether in favor of strengthening the foundations of their joy in each other. 

One passionate afternoon of discovery shouldn’t have been so fruitful.

Unless…

Izuna swallows heavily and feels his knees go soft. 

Unless Inari, a kami whose very image is said to induce fertility, was there to offer guidance through their earthly son’s pale hands and turgid cock. Maybe the problem was never Izuna’s failing as an incubator; maybe the issue stemmed from the fact that they were missing a vital piece of the puzzle. 

Senju Tobirama. 

A kodama phases into existence on Tobirama’s shoulder, another seated between his attentive fox ears, but Izuna can’t muster up the energy to shoo them away. They rattle and shake in their strange language. Glowing, their ghostly light brings the three marks of Inari’s favor on Tobirama’s face into sharp relief. 

“Yes, yes,” he yips in irritation, waving them off in favor of tilting his head to observe how the color continues to bleed from Izuna’s face. His lips hang slack in contemplation, then close with a muted click of teeth. 

“You didn’t know?” 

Another line of the forest spirits come running, some wearing toadstool caps like hats and others balancing armloads of acorns, dry leaves, and a single phoenix feather held at arm’s length. Watching the orange flames flicker off towards the plinth at the glade’s center, Izuna cheeps, then only belatedly translates:

“Not a sensor.” He leaves the ‘like you and Nii-san’ unvoiced. 

The trail of yellow and orange begins to streak through the night, to waver like a river the longer he follows it. 

Here he was wrestling with Madara and play-fighting with Hashirama, thinking this night was richer for having more siblings when he should have been prostrated at Tobirama’s paws in thanks the entire time. 

An egg. 

A living extension of their bond. In that moment, Izuna knows what needs to be done. He realizes that what they’ve been using as a temporary aerie is nothing of the sort. Its walls already house the memories of their evolving soul-bond—a hundred first times all witnessed beneath one thatch roof. They’ve unwittingly carved out a home on this mountain in only a couple of days’ time. 

Uchiha have always valued family over all else. The flock will have to follow in another’s draft for the time being. Madara’s time belongs to their chick first and Tousan will just have to understand.

“Izuna?” Tobirama calls in such a way that it obviously isn’t the first time. 

Warbling, he kisses Tobirama’s chin and goes up on his toes to capture lips that taste like stardust and home. It’s a slow, gentle thing and so powerful Izuna doesn’t realize when his calves begin to burn with the strain. 

Finally, Hashirama’s booming voice grounds him both literally and figuratively.

“Nice kick! I swear, I thought I grew wings or something for a minute there,” he prattles on despite being viciously ignored. A pause. “Aw, did I interrupt you two kissing?” 

As soon as there’s a clear shot, Izuna reluctantly pulls away from Tobirama’s embrace, patting his hip in apology. Chakra gathers under his hooded wings and sets leaves to scattering beneath him. 

An egg. A  _ chick _ . All for them. 

It’s with a piercing chirp that he shoots past Hashirama—lips open and hand upraised—and skids to a stop before his brother, his mate, his everything. Without hesitation, he ducks under Madara’s wing and is swift to bully up to his brother’s side in the nook shaped specifically to house him. A muscular arm wraps around his shoulders on instinct to pull him close. 

“What the hell, Otouto?” Madara grumbles, brow pinched.

Again, Izuna sings out to him, a entreaty for exactly this comfort, and the deep frown lines recede as quickly as they had come. Madara stops abruptly and hauls him in tight to his chest without further question or fanfare. “Tell me,” he says simply, crooning so low the sound travels through their skin. 

Just like that? How can Izuna put the swelling flood of emotion he feels into words? Usually Madara understands him without having to ask and now more than ever that’s what he needs. A brother, a mate, so well versed in their shared love language that translation is for the uninitiated... 

Oh. 

He swallows the next layer of nuance in his melody and turns it into something Tobirama can interpret through the thrum of his soul stone. 

Insurmountable yearning. Disbelief. An affection so all-consuming there’s no more space to contain it in his breast. That’s what Izuna needs this embrace for—to be crushed tight and held together in case he shatters. All of the pain and elation of a newfound future is forced through their connection in one jettison of emotion that rocks the bond and leaves them breathless. 

“I just…” he pants, nuzzling deeper into the cleft of Madara’s pectorals as if to hide there for a time, “I’m just really happy.” He slips a hand under his brother’s kosode to feel the heat of his abdominals, beneath which life grows. 

Words fail him then and all he can do is let loose a musical chime of a laugh, half-answer, half-plea. 

Subtle at first, warmth gathers around the mating token anchored in Izuna’s ear and travels inward to placate the deluge. Tobirama approaches, footfalls gentle as autumn rain.

“Good. I would hate to be alone in that regard.” 

Izuna can feel the way Madara looks to Tobirama for answers, then seems to find what he’s looking for. The relaxation of his body comes instantly, all of that hardness turning firm, but pliant under Izuna’s hands. “They’re nowhere near done yet. We have to be patient, Koibito,” he whispers against Izuna’s temple, sealing the words with a kiss. 

They? Multiple eggs? 

Izuna laughs wetly and struggles to compose himself.

It would seem he does have something to pray for after all—not as a request, but to give thanks for a boon already bestowed.

“Go on ahead, please, Anija,” Tobirama says, voice low so as not to break the moment. There’s the telltale clap of a hand on a clothed shoulder, then Hashirama’s billowing chakra flows down into the earth and begins to snake away like verdant roots—powerful and ancient. 

“Take your time. I’m happy for all of my precious brothers. More than you can know,” he says with more care and emotional sobriety than Izuna has ever heard from him. He’s serious. He  _ means _ it. A brother’s blessing settles warmer and more reassuring than any pelt. 

The next few minutes pass in a sort of fugue state. 

Touch. Hands and lips, feathers and fur. He doesn’t know how long they stand there wrapped up in each other until he’s able to walk under his own power. At some point he does, though. His talons go from the caress of earth to leaving wet foot prints on stone. 

Overwhelming joy deafens him to the greetings rising up around them. It blinds him to the fire-lit night that twinkles through the haze of unshed tears. 

Without memory of how he came to be here—seated on the edge of an obsidian stage where kitsune and family both gather in celebration—Izuna breathes deeply of his brother’s scent and nuzzles into the feathers on his neck, their fingers interlaced on Madara’s stomach. His palm sweats where his father has bustled in close enough to reach over and take their conjoined hands in his own. 

Amazing how white the scars stand out under the combined power of Indra’s eye and Inari’s lanterns. 

White like peace. 

White like eggshell. 

Tobirama takes his leave at some point after a hushed conversation is had under the cover of voices rising up in song. Once he returns with their prayer lantern, nothing will be able to stand in the way of their happiness. Here’s to hoping their mate  _ hurries _ .

“A lovely evening, isn’t it?” Tajima coos from where his head rests on Hikaku’s broad shoulder. Ever dutiful, Hikaku whistles his agreement, too enamored with the bobbing lanterns to realize he wasn’t the one being addressed.

“Yeah,” Izuna says simply, letting the honesty of his smile speak for him. Even with white, unseeing eyes, their father knows when words of the heart make it onto his face. “It really, really is.”

Trilling in satisfaction, Tajima reclaims his hand and turns back to the unfurling display.

On the peak of a grassy knoll before them, Senju Butsuma stands tall and confident, his face upturned to reflect the cool light of the moon. The night that envelopes the surrounding forest seems to bow to the radiant glow his tails cast—orange and gold arcs of energy flickering amongst the rich, brown fur. 

He slowly brings a small lantern up to press against his brow and, though they’re different species, Izuna can read the melancholy there. Red sigils spark as Butsuma buoys his diminutive prayer aloft and allows the kitsune fire within to take it up through the cloud cover and beyond.

A dramatic flash arcs though the clouds to cast the gathering in a red so vibrant it harkens to dawn—there and gone in an instant. 

Then cheers ring out. Yips, yowls, and Mito’s distinctive hawk’s cry. A rich, vibrant tenor rises up above the other voices while Butsuma continues to stare towards the heavens, startled and with ears swiveling as rapidly as his racing thoughts. 

“Lovely,” Tajima repeats, and Izuna’s not sure if he even meant for it to be heard.

Feigning ignorance, he rolls a low note against Madara’s neck and squeezes his brother’s hand just as the motion of a dozen bodies shift around them. Zenko of every natural shade bound off of the plinth, some transforming midway, others keeping pace with bipedal paws. 

The night erupts into a panoply of light and sound.

And at its center, Butsuma slowly returns to himself and begins to dance. His movements are controlled in a way that speaks to his strength, but tout an elegance that is altogether unexpected. Fire fills the glade in whirling arcs, illuminating the faces of those who would see this peace fully realized. 

Watching the foxfire grow is heartrending in a way Izuna can’t explain. It resonates with something in him, digs its gentle hooks under his ribs and tugs at his heartstrings to join in and set the night alight with the steps of his soul. He’s always danced on the earth. It’s been a natural inclination and one his flock humors, but has never truly understood. While their wings dot the sky in aerial displays, his talons dig into the dirt and channel a different pulse. 

Before he realizes he’s doing it, he slides off of the plinth to land with barely a ripple of grass, wings spread wide in concert with his arms and wind building under each step. On the next, though, he wrenches his head around to look over his shoulder and nearly stumbles. Madara smiles, though not with the intention to tease. It’s warmhearted. Content. 

“Go on,” he says, lifting his feathers in encouragement. “I’ll dance with you in a minute. I have something to talk to Tousan about first.”

Izuna knows; Madara has never left him to dance alone.

“Okay,” he chirps, unable to contain his eagerness. Wings extend wide enough to deepen the night once, twice, then he spins on his heel and runs to join the circle of what should be enemies, but have become extended family.

Along the way, Itama flits out of the darkness to nip at his heels, a half-white specter yipping with childish glee. It only takes a second for Kawarama to race alongside his other flank. His tongue lolls over the deeply inset scar on his cheek and Izuna has never seen anything so beautiful as a kit without a care in the world. The only reason Kagami isn’t there is because he’s already in the midst of a dozen kitsune, holding hands with a chick Izuna has never seen before and squealing while running in circles around Mito’s legs, as children do. 

Forgoing Izuna’s boring ankles, the kits take off to leap through the line of swaying fox tails and pounce circles through rings of phoenix fire. 

Izuna throws his head back and laughs, whirling mid-stride to dive immediately into a complex series of spins.

How things have changed from that first morning when he nearly gutted half the zenko elders for daring to look upon his adopted chick to now. His soul feels settled, his heart alight. This conglomeration feels like both an end and a beginning. 

There will be work for their joint flock and skulk to do in enforcing peace amongst the humans and other yōkai, but that’s a concern for later. For now, all they have to do is rejoice. 

Between heartbeats, he feels Tobirama’s presence slip into his shadow and then there are hands on his hips and music in his veins. The melody shifts at his touch, evolves. 

A familiar tempo kicks up at the same time as his feet naturally flow into the sequence of steps they took together that first night under Indra’s eye. This time, the dance is all the sweeter for having a mate’s body eagerly pressed against him. 

“I’ll lead,” Tobirama announces in a voice so low it flows like magma. The warm puff of breath against Izuna’s temple sets him to shivering. Amaterasu’s fire flares first blue, then black in all of the places they touch.

Amazing how the choreography comes so easily for all that it’s a kitsune’s rhythm. 

When Madara eventually joins them, the night sky erupts in a wash of divine providence. 


	29. Tobirama's POV

Dinner comes entirely too soon after having tasted paradise.

Tobirama looks first to Hashirama on Butsuma’s right, then Mito on his left. They’re too engaged in amicable conversation to meet his gaze across the table, though Butsuma himself deigns to do precisely that. 

His eyes are as piercing as that first memory of terror—wildly dashing through undergrowth to find safety beneath Hashirama’s tails. As a kit, Tobirama had no way of knowing this was his sire, and so, raised hackles and diminutive growls were the only welcome befitting a stranger on their mountain. 

Butsuma hadn’t tried to come closer that day. Nor any after that. In fact, each visit devolved further and further until they stopped happening altogether.

By the time Tobirama understood how potent a venom rejection could be, it was already too late. That adder’s strike can never be taken back. But, if he is to be held accountable for the instinctual reaction of a kit, then this six-tailed zenko will be held accountable for his very adult choice to pull back from the child of his body as well. Let him find solace in his adopted halflings. Itama and Kawarama can benefit from whatever tenderness Tobirama himself was denied for the crime of existing, if there even is any. 

Tobirama narrows his eyes, ears pinned back. 

As it has been for the past ninety-nine years, their clan head—strongest among them, forged in the crucible of battle—grimaces and turns away first. A coward or a beast, Tobirama still has yet to decide.

Refusing to allow the wound to fester further, he holds tight to Madara’s hand and takes heart in the reflexive squeeze. With Madara’s quiet joy emanating through their connection and Tajima’s arm brushing his elbow as each animated gesticulation brings life to the dinner table their clans share, the joy of simply being is too infectious to catalogue the slight. 

Let Butsuma stew in the tension he himself created. 

Instead, Tobirama focuses on more important things. The smoky scent of his mate fills his nose as it bolsters his soul—descending on him, in him, all around him. The weight of Madara’s head against his shoulder is a welcome one. It’s almost as if sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs a hot line against each other, isn’t close enough. Nothing short of sharing body and breath will ever be enough again.

Tobirama smiles with the knowledge that he is finally wanted.

Now he has a family. 

“So then I entered the aerie and there was my littlest chick, flat on his back and absolutely coated in red.” Tajima flares his wings for dramatic effect even as he resumes his tale, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. 

He fails quite miserably. 

“It was on the chabudai, the floors, staining the nest linens. I don’t have the smallest inkling of how, but it made it into the joists of the roof as well. Everywhere. Red, red, red. And here was my darling, downy ‘Zuna—”

Izuna hisses in outrage from Tajima’s other side.

Tobirama accepts the warmth of his adoptive father’s body when Tajima sways against him to avoid what was likely an elbow strike. Possibly an attempted plucking. Grunting, Madara lobs a chopstick at the side of his brother’s head in retaliation.

Forward. Rowdy. Uncouth. 

This new family is ridiculous in the best of ways. 

“—my darling, downy, sweet ball of mostly fluff, unconscious in the midst of a horror scene.”

Ears pricked forward, one of Tobirama’s cousins—the youngest of the elders—leans forward, all scars and sly humor. “It was jam, wasn’t it?” Touka asks with a grin bordering on feral. 

Tajima laughs outright. 

“Close! An unfortunate cooking attempt involving strawberries and a pilfered bottle of sake, actually. My poor boy was slurring and shitting red for a week,” he finishes, devolving into completely unrestrained merriment. 

The story, the picture of a loving chickhood, fills Tobirama with such warmth that he finds himself caught up in Tajima’s infectious energy. He chuckles, softly at first, then begins to shake with the force of his unrestrained guffaws. The thing is, he can picture it so clearly. Izuna is still that self-same glutton. His avaricious nature may have begun with berries, but it’s grown to encompass everything his heart settles on in this vast, wonderful world. 

How fortunate that Tobirama can be counted among those things. 

“Beautiful,” Madara murmurs, sidling close enough to intertwine their fingers tighter and warble a bass melody just for him. When Tobirama turns into his touch, chest still hitching on residual gaiety, his breath stops altogether. From this angle he can see the whole of Madara’s face unencumbered by hair.

Amongst all other yōkai there is only one match for how peerlessly handsome this tengu is, and that creature is Tobirama’s mate as well. ‘Beautiful’ doesn’t begin to describe the glory that he sees in the eyes as red as his own. But, yes— 

“You are,” Tobirama replies. 

Madara shakes his head and grins. “I was talking about you, brat,” he huffs in faux offense, gentling the jibe with another squeeze of Tobirama’s hand under the table. 

It’s only the clinking of dishes and the blooming scent of seared venison marinated in citrus that keeps Tobirama from devouring his mate’s words right here in front of both clans for all to witness. He inhales long and slow to curb the impulse. Tengu are modest in mixed company; he needs to respect that no matter how he desires.

Tajima’s boldness is apparently an aberration. 

“Oh great, something to  _ occupy Tousan’s mouth _ ,” Izuna cheeps pointedly as he accepts a warm o-shibori from a ghostly spirit. Touka’s tufted ears twitch like a caracal’s, sweeping the air at the sound of weakness. Fortunately for them all, she does little more than shrug out of the top of her kosode—down to the crisp, white bindings over her chest—and pursue the chopsticks she had used to fashion an impromptu topknot.

No commentary, no pouncing on the obvious opening. 

Perhaps tonight truly is a sign of the strength of their clans’ peace accord.

“If only we could have been so lucky an hour ago,” Butsuma adds without inflection, loud enough to carry. 

_ Perhaps not. _

Lips pressed thin, Butsuma briskly wipes his hands clean and returns his towel to the indistinct spirit at his shoulder. Mito’s calming touch is there in an instant to pat his forearm. Temperance is what she represents in all of their lives—for Butsuma more than most for reasons Tobirama doesn’t care to ruminate on. How odd that this time he pulls away.

“Ah, my apologies, Sweetling,” Tajima replies with a congenial, but far too toothy smile. 

Not surprisingly, Butsuma says nothing further. 

Silence lingers long enough that the conversation seems over. 

In the quiet, that very same spirit reappears with an ephemeral burst of light to begin doling out steaming bowls of miso soup, rice, pickled vegetables, and massive communal platters of meat, crisply seared at the edges and glistening in the lamplight. 

As soon as it moves along, Tajima nods his thanks and slides his attention back to Butsuma. "Though, I have to wonder," he begins, tapping his chopsticks against his eyeteeth, “would you consider yourself better served if my mouth had been set to other tasks? Had I known, I would have gladly offered you a taste of my talents. It’s well known that oration is not my only skill.”

Wielding chopsticks like weapons, he spins one around his thumb and captures it with admirable dexterity. A hush falls around him once again as he plucks up a piece of seaweed from his soup and daintily licks the drops of broth before they can fall.

“For instance, I also have a fantastic singing voice.”

Punctuation comes in a single, sharp clap of hands down the table. “Now we should give thanks for Inari’s abundance. It’s customary for zenko to do so before a meal,” Senju Ichariba states, her handsome voice loud even in the gathering storm of chakra. 

Next to her, Elder Shippō nods, one ear folding down with the motion. “A fantastic idea. Very respectable tradition.”

Tobirama scoffs into Madara's hair. Nothing about this debacle is respectable. Though it’s amusing how awkwardly they are trying to avert further incident.

As impressive as it is to watch Butsuma's face pale, Mito saves their clans from any further theatrics. Her wings spread like the dawn, all variegations of red, yellow, and gold. She gently coaxes Butsuma's palm to turn up and accept hers. Seal-work thickens the air without a word spoken or a sigil drawn and some of the color seems to return to him in stages.

"Elders, if you could please walk our clans through the traditional words," she encourages, voice gentle, with steel at its core.

It's a bizarre show. Tobirama had never thought them close; Butsuma is too intelligent not to defer to the wisdom of a creature so much older than himself, but Tobirama has never seen him so accepting of the touch of another. Not that it lasts. 

He takes in a deep, shuddering breath, ripping his hand back soon after. Tajima mutters disappointment at his failed scene, and the evening rolls on. 

The plates before them are cracked jade inset with gold. Kintsugi is a heavy handed analogy that keeps arising, a fitting one, though. Tobirama thinks to how their combined pieces—Madara, Izuna, and himself—have come together so beautifully with skeins of bond and fate to create something far more lovely than they could have ever managed alone. Their clans are similarly fractured and similarly healed. 

Blinking, he takes in the camaraderie around him: his brother and cousin shoving each other discretely in an effort to capture a large water chesnut, the elders he's spoken to only in passing discussing trade with Tajima's retinue. Even Madara and Izuna are relaxed in the carriage of their wings. 

Life has moved past what implication has suggested was a horrid, misunderstood battle of give and take. This peace is good. This is a beginning that Tobirama will gladly enforce. 

He reclaims his hand from where Madara's distraction has loosened his grip. The spreads of meat are far more sumptuous than the squirrels and rabbits he's used to felling. Thick with the scent of fire and spice-laden juices, the meal is nothing short of mouthwatering. 

Tobirama reaches out to garner a taste for himself. 

He forgoes the sticks everyone seems to be gathering up and flipping end over end to serve themselves. Inefficient not to use your fingers. So he does. His claws sink into the venison, dimpling it and allowing the still-warm juices to drip down his knuckles. 

Clearing his throat, Tajima is quick to drop his chopsticks with a clatter. "Quite right, Tobirama, thank you for reminding me!" He quickly corrals his bamboo utensils before they roll off of the table. "As the zenko have shared their table and traditions with us, I would like to honor the memory of those zenko and daitengu that have come before by fostering a reminder that under all of the pomp and finery, we are predators in our own right. It would be remiss to act as something other than we are and so, let the first bite harken the dining etiquette of generations past."

Subtle tension has the cords of muscle in his forearm shifting as he reaches out to take up a piece of meat.

Tobirama knows what his adoptive father is doing and the flare of embarrassment sets his cheeks to warming. Apparently the chopsticks are important. Again, he's misstepped for not having been taught his own culture's customs. 

Across the table, Butsuma drops his face into his hands, sucking in an audible breath.

"Yes. Inari forbid we dine as more than forest animals," he intones, voice muffled. 

And something in that spark of pique finally ignites the powder keg. 

Tajima's head whips up so quickly that it causes Tobirama to startle. "You speak as if the habits of forest animals are something to be slighted. From my observations, they at least have the common decency to look after their own," he snaps, still smiling and adding a dangerous lilt to his words. 

Tobirama doesn't understand the reason for the sudden shift in tone. Somehow, Madara does. His mate's wings rise ever so slightly even as he hisses an expletive soft as feather fall. 

Butsuma's eyes flash golden in threat. "How  _ dare _ you insult me at my own table?" 

Almost immediately, chakra begins to swell from five distinct sources, Mito the calm eye at the center of that growing gale. "Butsuma," she warns. It's useless, though. Tajima and Butsuma—for all that they are supposed to be figureheads for their respective clans' push for peace—only have eyes for each other. 

Eyes and words as sharp as kunai.

"Are you deserving of being spoken to in any other manner?" Tajima pushes, rising up onto his knees to plant his palms against the table. Curls of veneer reveal the pale wood beneath his flexing talons. Every feather on his body ripples with static charge. "Please, elucidate matters for me. I find myself so overwhelmingly  _ blinded _ by your boorishness that I can’t figure out what is appropriate etiquette and what isn’t."

"Tajima, that's  _ enough _ ."

"Tousan!" Izuna squawks in concert with Hikaku's stern reprimand. 

Not that Tobirama expects them to be able to suppress such a force of nature as Uchiha Tajima. 

"Peace, loves," Tajima croons, flicking his pinions wide in his own gentle rebuke. "You see, in my household etiquette flies parallel to respect, and respect is something I can’t find in myself to offer up right now. I would not have brought my family to this table had I known the clan head of the Senju was a bond-breaker amongst his own blood."

And if the conflagration hadn't already been ignited, that would have ensured it. 

" _ I’m _ the bond breaker?" Butsuma roars. He rockets up to his knees and punches the tabletop hard enough to make the plates jump and the dishware clatter. Flame flares even as he bares his fangs in overt threat. 

"To birth a kit and abandon it for another child to raise is unconscionable and an offense I cannot stomach. Then to humiliate that same kit in front of others just now…if you were one of mine, I would have clipped your pinions personally and set you to walk the earth for your crimes." 

Butsuma looks at Tobirama, eyes wide, nostrils flared. Again, he winces. An autumnal squall could tear through the courtyard and neither of them would be the wiser. For Tobirama, his distraction comes in finally seeing and understanding what it means when his sire's eyes turn from brown to amber. 

Abject fear...of the past, the future, the unknown. 

The chabudai squeals against the flagstones as Butsuma rockets up to his hind paws. His chest heaves. His tails sway violently. Even from here, his brow glistens with sweat. Mito reaches out to him again, but catches only the trailing end of a sleeve. Her fingers close around layers of brocade so stiff and thick that a single tug has Butsuma's kimono slipping off of his shoulder. 

The tod is broad in the way of Hashirama—solid bone and thick muscle. And there, where his deltoid juts out as a testament to his physical strength, red soul marks wrap around the swell—white scar tissue raised around and through them as if they were a branding. Three V’s all stacked one atop the other like overlapping dragon scales.

Or tengu feathers. 

"You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve lost my appetite," Butsuma snarls as he tears out of Mito's grip and yanks his kimono back to rights. He whips around, a flow of tails trailing him. Spider-web cracks spread in the stone with each retreating step.

"Hard to digest when your belly is filled with your own inherent failures as a father?" Tajima calls out. 

Tobirama is fond of his adoptive father, but even he wonders at the viciousness of his baiting.

Butsuma stops. Clenched fists are the only sign of his ire for all that his voice stays flat. "No. What I find hard to stomach is watching the cause of it all flaunt how easily he’s earned the graces of a son I can’t touch. Enjoy your meal. Hashirama, you’re now clan head." There's no further attempt at refuting Tajima's claim, only a flare of foxfire and a burst of star-scent.

Yellow light blinks once, twice as Butsuma flash-steps his massive, vulpine body into the treeline and beyond. His comet trail flits into the canopy and is gone in an instant.

Nobody speaks. Nobody stirs. Even the kits and chicks stay still where Kagami had been tossing tidbits up into the air for his friends to snap up only a few seconds prior. 

Hikaku’s voice is the first to brave the aftermath. "You took that too far.”

Not that Tajima appears to mind the tattered battlefield he conquered this day. "On the contrary, I don’t believe I took it far enough," he states, popping a small morsel of venison into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he wipes his fingers clean on the placemat. 

It's no wonder this tengu has conquered nations. His will is indominaitable. 

"Um, Tousan?" Izuna speaks up, far more hesitant than Tobirama has ever heard him. "The first time you met the Senju," he pauses to rally his courage, "did you touch him on his shoulder? 

It’s testament to the tension of the situation that Tajima answers honestly in a way. He licks an errant speck of spice from his lips as if his entire body hasn’t gone taut. “How could you possibly know that?”

"Because he has the same marks there that you have on your wings. Like us and Tobirama. Well, not the same exact ones, but you know what I mean..."

Which Tajima would not be able to see. Every zenko knows soul marks, for all that they are divinity-wrought, tend to be superficial. It's the bond itself that anchors a kitsune to their second heart—a connection moored in fate, not secondary physical characteristics. 

Tobirama flattens his ears along his scalp as he instinctively leans further into Madara's solid body. 

No matter the animosity he feels towards Butsuma this revelation is...horrifying to behold. 

"'Bond-breaker.' _ Fuck _ ," Tajima grinds out with feeling. The regret in that single word is palpable. He stands. For all that he jokes he is elderly and infirm, this is the first time he's ever looked it.

His wings spread wide enough to block out a vast swath of lamplight. 

"Senju Hashirama-san, as one clan head to another, I will pronounce my intention to uphold this peace accord in its original intention," he says softly. "That being said, I am going to go kill your father, myself, or both in the process while attempting to communicate. Boys, make your family wherever you deem best and do so with my blessing. Hikaku, you are clan head in my absence."

With that, Tajima gathers a swell of chakra so dense it swirls like oil in the air and slams his wings down in one brutal slap of wind. A gong's resonance, a clarion call of power, and he launches near vertically. The air tears through the courtyard and upends kimonos and heavily laden dishware alike. 

The power is unbelievable. 

As his red-tipped pinions shear through the night, the rest of their party gapes, frozen.

Crickets chirp. 

Night birds call. 

No one moves.

"Dessert?" Hashirama finally offers in a voice so thin it's see-through. 


	30. Tajima's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hands down my favorite chapter to write, even if ButsuTaji is only a side pairing. T_T

The clouds part as Tajima races to catch the trailing ends of Butsuma’s lashing chakra. He bites back at the northern wind that seeks to temper his power and slow his flight. He has a purpose, a goal, and one that nature has no business holding him back from.

Honesty or blood—how interesting that now only one option can truly satisfy.

Gritting his teeth, Tajima banks hard to avoid an outcropping of rock and uses the momentum to spin down into a peregrine’s dive. Sharp wind tears into him. His wings aren’t meant for breakneck speed. It’s only sheer desperation that keeps him from pulling out of the plummet before reaching terminal velocity, joints screaming against the strain.

A hundred years. A hundred years he’s spent alone, content in the chicks who had captured his heart with their very first peep. He had thought himself whole, never knowing that in his joy he had all but denied the other half of his soul any hope of completion.

No wonder his delegation had been met with animosity.

Another burst of chakra flares in sequence with an even brighter flash of heat in the near distance. Each and every flash-step threatens to make the yawning chasm between Tajima and the father of his children that much greater. An untenable truth. He shrieks outrage through the ice crystals forming on his lips and channels his own substantial chakra into pushing the limits. Strain harder. Go _ faster _ .

His unending hawk’s cry stretches out across the skyline until his throat protests. Even then, he continues to suck in gale after great, gaping gale to keep pushing through the pain. 

A yōkai can only take so much death and destruction before they either find an outlet for that pent up energy or destroy themselves from within. He recalls alighting on this very same mountain by chance after having been grounded in the wavering chakra of a red moon so many years ago. That first night he had found release in the embrace of a supposed enemy, a zenko cut from a far too similar cloth. Senju Butsuma was a kitsune of honor—fighting with the same protective intent as Tajima—with whom there was no shame in sharing sweet nothings and dreams of peace.

Tajima didn’t understand such easy acceptance, but he was eager to put down his gunbai regardless. The calluses on his palms were thick, his wings were heavy, and Butsuma was a rare delight. 

An arched throat and bared fangs glinting in the glow of Indra’s eye. Tajima will never forget the nights he spent taking Butsuma apart and being destroyed in turn.

‘Bond-breaker’, Tajima had called him, when all this time he was the only fool between them to have strayed from a path made for two.

“Wait for me,” he rasps, just as he had done a century prior. 

A smattering of contour feathers tears away from the sheer velocity of his descent. Though, being plucked bare is the least of what he deserves for his crime, no matter than he didn’t know. He should have kept his word that he would return to this mountain in the week following their three days and two nights of passion, not now, so far after the fact.

He should have respected Butsuma enough to…well, he shouldn’t have so jealously guarded his gravid condition. Tobirama is proof that Butsuma moved on soon enough, but that fact doesn’t absolve Tajima of his own mistakes.

Soulmates.

Another loud, piercing shriek and he finally breaks through the cloud cover to sense the ground approaching faster than it ever has. He rips his wings up to ride the turbulent pocket of air pressing the grass flat. Being blind affords him faster reaction times, better chakric control. That prowess is the only thing that keeps him from shearing off his wings on a copse of trees as he shoots over the ground faster than any flash-step could manage.

Surprise blooms before him—arcs of kitsune chakra potent enough to harken old memories of Boreas’ lights. Red like blood, the ardent gold of a fox’s eyes in spring, and green. Green like the leaves of a bamboo forest never allowed to sprout.

Tajima cants his pinions and slams his fists down to bury his talons into the uppermost layer of soil. Massive furrows rise up behind and around him, scouring down to the very bones of the mountain itself. If pain weren’t quite so beyond him, his forearms would scream against the strain.

It doesn’t matter. Agony is inconsequential. All that has purpose right now is closing the gap between the past and the future. To that effect, he slams shoulder first into Butsuma’s flank and bowls them both over a sheer cliff face with enough force to fell a cypress. 

It’s not a very tactical approach. Passion will always be his strength and his downfall, literally as the case may be.

A hail of debris plunges into the surface of a lake far below, cacophonous in the otherwise strange, liminal peace of freefall. Momentum has carried them far enough out to avoid the shallows. They’ll be fine. They’ll survive this debacle and they’ll be  _ fine _ .

Tajima tumbles through the air without bothering to right himself and reaches for Butsuma instead.

Fur as hot as a star’s center welcomes his grasp.

This is going to hurt, he thinks.

And it does.

He takes in a deep lungful of air and bears the impact of the surface back-first, tail feathers tucked, and wings pinned tight around the massive fox body pressed along his chest and thighs. Water slams into him stronger than a thunderclap, then, for the first time in his avian life, he knows the fear of falling.

Bubbles stream past his face and press ephemeral kisses to the back of his neck. His silks drag him down for all that they float weightlessly around him. It’s quiet here. So quiet. Perhaps this is what he’s been missing all along—a moment of peace not echoing with the emptiness of his own words, the possibility of a future made full by the heartbeat of another.

In the crush of the lake, Tajima smiles and waits. Between them, he’s the one who is all but useless in the water. Another minute. Another lifetime. He closes his eyes as he feels teeth dig into the front of his haori, then the frantic motion of limbs shifting the water around him. It would seem their bond is salvageable after all. Indra’s balls, he would laugh if his chest wasn’t already burning.

The first breath of night air is a welcome one, digging its claws in deep and setting Tajima to coughing up half a cistern. Mud oozes up between his fingers and he can barely drag his sodden wings clear of the water. They’re alive, Butsuma is here, and Tajima counts both of those things as successes.

Movement before him has Tajima crawling on hands and knees through the shallows as swiftly as he can. After having expelled so much of his chakra in his mad flight, the world is well and truly dark. The brilliant afterimages that typically paint the scene around him are reduced to feel and sound.

Chilled water and an undercurrent of fear.

“What were you thinking?” Butsuma snarls. His words are thicker coming from the muzzle of a fox—elongated and emotive.

“I don’t believe I was,” Tajima admits, chuckling mirthlessly and paying for it with another round of wet hacking.

“Obviously!” 

Indra curse whatever formative power thought water should ever gather en masse. Nothing registers for a long moment as Tajima struggles to catch his breath. Then sensation begins to return. Butsuma’s tails swish and splatter water into the surrounding foliage. In the distance, crickets chirrup and frogs croak as if the world hasn’t been cracked in twain. The night speaks to him in disjointed clips and phrases all comingling to form a single narrative that Tajima himself could never manage on his best days. 

For all of his pretty words, he’s never actually been good with using them in a meaningful way. Battle is what he knows—battle and taking what he needs without consideration for the trail of casualties left in his wake. This time he’ll try to be clear, to make an effort.

“Our conversation,” he clears his throat to renew the power in his voice, “hasn’t concluded.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Butsuma bites back without hesitation. “Go find another yōkai to ruin, you oni’s ass.” 

Claws scrabbling on stone announce his strategic retreat up the bank. Tajima can imagine muscle bunching under powerful flanks, a swath of tails fanning wide enough to warp the horizon as Butsuma backpedals without turning his back to a foe.

Understanding doesn’t make the slight rankle any less, and that reflexive ire is the reason Tajima’s words can so often turn into weapons. Calm and open conversation is obviously a dream for another day.

“Ah, but you see, I’ve come across some rather pertinent information,” he croons, looking up from under the wet mass of bangs clinging to his cheek. He may be blind, but he remembers how devastating his face can be. Another tool mastered, another weapon in his arsenal. Against Butsuma it’s not wholly effective, but good enough. A moment’s hesitation. An indrawn breath.

Then Tajima strikes.

“While being visually impaired has never impeded my ability to function, it does lend certain,” he pauses in feigned contemplation, “challenges. Though, I assure you, basic arithmetic has never been one of them. How many tails do you have now? It’s been a hundred years. Surely you would have gained another in all of that time, hmm?”

And there, a surprised ripple of chakra as the javelin head burrows in deep. Tajima can hear the way Butsuma’s breath whistles, can feel the electric rise and fall of his hackles. It’s all the opening he needs.

Rocking back onto his talons, Tajima spreads his wings in counterbalance and digs in. He’ll only have one chance to win Butsuma and in every instance prior they’ve spoken more clearly through action than words. This time, just as their first, fists will have to be the icebreaker of choice.

He launches off of muddy, unsure footing and uses his powerful thighs to accommodate for the shifting ground. As soon as he’s up, he can feel Butsuma spin on his haunches, but it’s too late. Tajima is a full body shackle imbued with the strength of desperation. His talons latch around Butsuma’s slender canon bones like manacles and they both fall together, Butsuma crumpling chest-to-ground with Tajima holding firm even as he shifts forms to fight the hold.

His mate is a forge’s heart beneath him, Tajima thinks, too preoccupied in maintaining his advantage to linger on it further. Afterward he’ll have time to delight in the way the lake water evaporates from his skin in ephemeral trails of steam. Exploring the chakric nature his boys have inherited will be a delight. Later. For now, he hisses expletives and pits his strength against Butsuma’s own.

Too clever by far, Butsuma transforms into his more human skin forgoing any clothing for Tajima to latch onto. The lake water makes him too slick to hold for more than a moment before having to switch grips. Deep claw marks tear up the ground as Tajima spreads his legs wide to drive his shoulder down instead. 

His blood races. His stomach clenches tight. There’s something simple and clean in the flexing of muscle—something honest.

When Butsuma realizes he won’t be able to match Tajima’s brute force without damaging them both, his violent thrashing eases a fraction.

“Get off of me!” he yowls back over his shoulder, snapping into the words as if they were a tengu neck instead. The scent of venison blossoms on his prolonged growl and incites thoughts of all of the trappings of peace still laid out on a table so many leagues away. Flock and family, allies both new and old waiting to house them both.

Another incredibly powerful roll of spine and tails nearly unseats Tajima. Clutching hard enough to bruise, he weathers the vitriol. “How many tails?” he asks again, allowing all affect to drain in an instant. No simpering dove’s coo will bend the steel at Butsuma’s core. He deserves that respect.

“Off!” Butsuma roars.

“How many fucking tails, Butsuma?” Tajima shrieks right back, cheek pressed tight to the side of his neck. When an answer isn’t immediately forthcoming, he anchors his teeth in muscle so close to the artery that he can feel a rabbit pulse kick off against his lips.

Butsuma goes stiff and still beneath him. “If you’re asking, then you already know,” he states, bold despite the danger.

Humming, Tajima loosens his jaw and licks a line of salt up to where the skin is thinnest just under the hinge of Butsuma’s jaw—kisses his jolting carotid. “Humor me,” he whispers. His recalcitrant mate’s breath hitches.

There’s a long moment where Tajima can feel the internal struggle happening beneath him in the arrhythmic flex of muscle, then a telling, whole-body release. All of the fight drains from Butsuma in increments. They sink to the ground together, Tajima’s palms still wrapped around thick, now-pliant wrists.

His sodden wings press flat to the bank as well in his own subtle show of surrender. 

“I have the six Inari gave me and one Mito sealed away because you broke the damn bond,” Butsuma says hollowly. “Happy now? Just go home, Tajima.”

Home? Home is the warmth of an overfilled nest, of shared meals and resounding laughter. Whatever home he has left to him is here, on a mountain soon to be filled with the love of his sons and their newest mate, and the chicks they’ll hatch together. To bring two families together would be...Tajima can’t think of a term to express such a joyous ending to their tale. 

“That’s what I’m attempting to do,” he replies, feeling carved out and as empty as Butsuma’s tone. “I had no way of knowing we were mated.” 

The admission is freeing for all that it feels like a mortal wounding.

“‘No way of knowing’…Are you blind?” Butsuma asks incredulously. 

Tajima sighs, forlorn. “I am.”

Groaning, Butsuma drops his forehead to the ground. “Not like that,” he grunts, sounding far older than his years. His tails slap listlessly against Tajima’s thighs where they cradle his knees and hips.

“I know what you’re asking,” Tajima concedes, “and I’ve always been rather dull-witted when it comes to you, Sweetling.”

And something about that endearment seems to tear the seeping wound wide. Tension floods through Butsuma so quickly that Tajima can’t renew his hold in time. He slips to the side and slams his exhausted wing down to keep Butsuma bowed, if not conquered.

“Don’t ‘Sweetling’ me,” Butsuma hisses, chakra thrashing wildly. “Get the hell  _ off _ .”

There’s so much danger laced through his command—enough to make Tajima shiver in want of a bond to know that anger soul-deep. He doesn’t understand why he can’t feel their connection the way others say they do. But Indra guide him, he wants it so badly it hurts.

Butsuma struggles to free himself. Panting, he scrabbles as far as he can on hands and knees and finally cocks his fist back to punch his way out. Tajima’s underwing bucks under the blow, and while the bruise will make flight uncomfortable in the following week, it affords him the chance to latch onto one of Butsuma’s wrists again.

“You think,” Butsuma pants as they grapple for dominance, “finally pulling your head”—another hard earned gasp—“out of your own ass—ah—absolves you of everything?” He rolls onto his back and snaps his thighs around Tajima’s narrow hips.

Powerful legs clamp tight and Tajima realizes he’s going to lose this battle in more ways than one. Butsuma lashes out, quick as a snake strike, and pulls him down so close their noses press. The spittle of his anger is a warm companion on Tajima’s lips.

“I lost a son because of you! I lost  _ everything _ ,” Butsuma screams. “You broke your word and you never came back!” His voice tightens and it’s obvious that he can barely get the next sentence out. “Can you imagine what it’s like to have a bond unravel?” A wet hitch of breath. “I stayed here on this godforsaken mountain waiting for you to keep your promise. For a year! Then Tobirama…he  _ hatched _ , for fuck’s sake.”

Tobirama. That gorgeous epicenter of everything good in the world for his boys is his son?  _ Their son _ . Time stops. The heavens shatter. Tajima forgets how to breathe. Around them, there’s the distinct feel of phoenix magic wearing thin and the full force of their tattered bond slams into him with merciless abandon.

Pain. More pain than Tajima has ever known bleeds him as dry as a rain shadow. 

“I couldn’t look at my own child, my own flesh and blood, without seeing you!” Butsuma continues, shoving Tajima away to arm’s length as a sob escapes. “Do you know what it’s like to resent a child? Do you, Tajima? To be completely revolted by the thought of suckling your own flesh and blood? He was so beautiful and so perfect and I just  _ couldn’t _ . I tried so hard for so long to fight it. All I wanted was to love my kit, but the thought had me tearing myself in half just to get away  _ from you _ .”

“No,” Tajima whispers, then louder, until his denial devolves into the song of a whippoorwill—quivering and endless. Never in his life has he mourned the loss of his sight more than in this singular moment. Crying out, he slams his palms into Butsuma’s outstretched elbows and drops forward as they collapse. It’s a gift to feel Butsuma’s heart beating against his own, to rise and fall with the broadness of his chest and drown in the dampness of his hair. The moon shifts before Butsuma is able to calm himself. In that time, his arms hesitantly wrap around Tajima’s shoulders to hold him tight.

The bond is fraught with so much pent up emotion that Tajima would shake apart if not for the embrace holding them together.

A hundred years of joy and agony all tied up in a phoenix’s magics. Seals aren’t his strength by any means, but even he knows that whatever chakric controls were placed would have blunted everything, not only the pain. There’s no way to pick and choose what to feel, and so Butsuma had resolved not to feel anything at all. A living death.

For a hundred years.

Tajima frantically strokes Butsuma’s cheeks. Hikaku has described the red tearstains Inari blessed him with and it wouldn’t be outlandish to learn they were meant to be prophetic. Having been opened, the sluice gates can never close again under the force of his anguish. No wonder his mate’s tears roll thick like blood. 

Finally, Butsuma breathes in through his mouth and continues, swallowing repeatedly. “Hashirama took my son away and raised him with all the love I couldn’t. Hashi’s not mine by blood, but I took him in and he…he grew up to be everything I’m not. Mito figured out how to seal the bond and stop me from dying, but it took too long. Hashirama’s forest is half the size it should be and Tobirama thinks I’m a monster.”

“He doesn’t,” Tajima protests on principle.

Butsuma laughs, and it’s such a broken thing that Tajima can’t help but to hum a few notes of lullaby. It’s effective only insofar as it makes the ragged sound peter out in favor of another long stretch of silence.

Shifting, Tajima slips through Butsuma’s lax legs and gracelessly straddles his hips to bring them as flush as possible. Their combined heat is a comfort, as is the chance to house them both in the shadow of his wings and hide them from the eyes of the kami. Butsuma accepts his weight with ease—cups the back of his head and holds him close. 

His chest trembles even as the bond itself starts to balance.

“I’ve lost him, Tajima, and for what? Mito’s seal has been breaking down ever since you showed up and I’ve been so  _ angry _ . I’ve been furious knowing that I’ve been dying day by day while you moved on and started a family with another mate. And now your sons are taking the only light I have away. I should have let the bond gut me when I had the chance.”

Tajima has learned so much—so many secrets revealed and misconstrued truths laid bare. It takes a moment for the implication to even process.

“‘With another’” he balks. “Butsuma, love, Madara and Izuna are yours. Can you not see yourself in them?”

He smiles, sad, but enough for Butsuma to feel against his neck.

“Madara has inherited your quiet strength and Izuna your boundless drive and determination. They are the best of both of us, no others. I had thought our meeting a pleasant interlude, but one a zenko would have no lasting interest in. I was very much mistaken, and for that I will never be able to truly make amends.” There, honesty. It’s surprisingly simple, Tajima finds. 

He runs his talons through Butsuma’s hair, careful not to catch them in the snarls.

“So I’ve lost three sons.”

The flatness of his voice is heartrending and so very wrong.

“Not at all,” Tajima warbles, punctuating his assurance with a chaste kiss to his mate’s throat. “Relationships can be rebuilt. I raised my boys in a nest comingled with your scent until they mated and sought to construct a nest of their own. They feel no animosity towards you except that based in rumor and misunderstanding.”

Making peace with Tobirama will be a different situation altogether, if their kit so chooses to accept Butsuma’s overtures in the first place. It will be Tobirama’s decision to mend those ties or moor them elsewhere. Either way, they will weather the storm. Together. 

“My scent?” Butsuma asks.

Tajima snorts and nips at whatever stretch of skin is closest. Amazing how those two words hold more hope than even the staunchest of peace accords. “I stole your haori that first night, as you’ll recall. It’s been a constant comfort throughout the years,” he admits, pausing in sudden insight, “and one I unintentionally denied you in turn. I’m sorry, Sweetling.”

As loath as he is to move, he folds his wings enough to allow the moonlight to flow back into the space between them and reluctantly sits up. His eyes are ornaments at best. Still, he would never deny Butsuma the opportunity to judge the full measure of his sincerity.

Tajima takes Butsuma’s heavy jaw between his palms, careful not to scratch with his talon tips. “Words alone will never suffice, but I am well and truly sorry for the pain I have caused. If you would have me, I will endeavor to spend the remainder of my years making amends for how grievously I have hurt a yōkai I should have been bolstering with love. Will you allow me this opportunity, Senju Butsuma, to be the mate I should have been a century ago?”

For a brief instant, Tajima wonders why his words sound like a proposal of matrimony, only belatedly realizing it’s because they are in a way.

Reigniting in Tajima’s chakric sight, Butsuma eases himself into sitting as well, hands coming to rest on his waist. “I’ll break if you leave again,” he points out, slow and tentative. There’s an edge of hope there, though. Longing tempered by past wrongs.

“Why would I ever present you with a single good-bye when I can give you all of my good mornings?” Tajima assures him. “Please, allow me the honor of earning your love and offering mine freely in turn.”

This time, when Butsuma chuckles, it’s rough, but real. “You ask like you don’t already have it, you stupid bird,” he mutters. It’s obvious that he doesn’t know how to move forward—has forgotten what to do with any of these more tender emotions.

And so Tajima shows him. Scoured and aching from within, he brushes Butsuma’s hair back and kisses his forehead exactly as he would his boys. There’s no greater profession of family and home among their kind and here, he would give that title a thousand times over.

A soulmate. There are so many wounds to heal—so very many—and Tajima finds himself eager to begin binding each and every one of them with his own hands. Their bond will stand firm. It will, or he’ll tear Indra and Inari right out of their hidden kingdoms and show them what it is to be toyed with. 

The burgeoning light in Butsuma’s soul is promising.

“Together we will all heal, love,” Tajima pronounces, followed by another kiss—on the tip of his nose this time. “Nothing has been irrevocably lost nor will it ever be again. I will ensure that fact and if I ever falter, I ask that you please strike me until my sense returns.”

“Do I get to backdate that hit?”

“If it would further lighten your soul, I invite the pain,” Tajima quips, grinning. Clever fox. As if Butsuma would ever be so bold as to take him up on an offer clearly made in the spirit of thi—

Before he can even finish the thought, a starburst explodes behind his left eye and where once there was darkness is now only blinding shock. Water laps at his shoulders and fills his ears from where the world has violently upended. He lies prone on the bank, frozen, not by pain, but by the sheer daring. Of all the ridiculous... 

Raucous caws rock his body, deep and powerful until his lungs burn with it. 

He laughs until he can’t breathe, and only then manages a strangled “You actually struck me!”

Grunting, Butsuma crawls over to kneel next to his head. He gently pulls some of the heat away from what promises to be a spectacularly swollen eye. 

“You told me I could,” he says dryly. “If that’s not what you wanted, you should have said so.”

A lesson, is it? Fair enough. They’re both terrible at communication.

“Well, I happened to have been testing you,” Tajima ripostes, curious to see if Butsuma can feel the satisfaction he’s pushing through their bond. Something of it must have transmitted, because Butsuma’s touch turns soft. Fingers strong enough to punch through skull massage Tajima’s temples in gentle circles.

He flicks his ears forward, sending down a cascade of water droplets. “Did I pass?”

Tajima smiles with all the joy he can channel and spreads his wings wide along the water’s edge. The red of his soul marks glares up in challenge at the teardrop moon above.

“With flying colors, love,” he announces, laughing at his own wit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ButsuTaji inkwork (now that it's not a spoiler lol)](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/623659336980430848/just-a-couple-of-handsome-murder-dads-3)


	31. Madara's POV

The day has been both magnificent and worrisome in equal measure and Madara wonders how one tengu is meant to withstand any of it. Tobirama leans against him, fingers aglow as they slowly circle his lower abdomen. Izuna is a mess under his other arm, rapidly vacillating between crooning worse than a hen, and staring off into the night with his sharingan swirling. The chatter around them has waned enough to bring about an undercurrent of tension. 

Zenko and tengu alike have been reluctant to leave a meal long since gone cold without at least some news.

Finally, an answer approaches. 

Raised voices start out as a low thrum in the forest beyond, gaining in volume. Laughter pierces the darkness not a heartbeat before the lantern light catches on Tajima’s red-lacquered talon tips, flowing up the scales of his bare leg and further to reveal a smile so honest it outshines the moon.

Madara can only stare.

His father looks like he was dredged from the bottom of a lake and sprouted his own pond scum while he was there. He’s never appeared so ill-kempt, even in the heat of battle. Still, he can’t recall a time he’s ever seen Tajima so unabashedly happy either. 

It’s been at least two hours since he launched, healthy and whole. The creature that returns is somehow even more vibrant—settled in his skin and glowing with it.

“Stop dragging your paws lest I snatch you up and present you to my chicks like a snow hare,” Tajima cheeps, spinning in place and causing the lamp oil to fizzle and pop in the spray of his feathers. He leans into the darkness of the tree line and drags Butsuma from its shadows by the wrist. The zenko isn’t so obvious as to stumble, but it’s a near thing.

Reluctance is in every line of him, from the flex of his jaw to the stiff set of his shoulders. White scars map the contours of his chest and flow down past the straining ties of hakama meant for a much narrower waist. He looks lost standing there in Tajima’s clothing—fox ears pressed flat, and tails pinned tight against his legs. 

But there on his deltoids is the undeniable truth behind Tajima’s joy. Madara has nothing but fond memories of those markings, wrapped in feather dust and smelling of their father, now emblazoned on the body of a yōkai whose motivations he can’t begin to fathom. 

The feathers of his hidden crest rise slightly in warning, adding volume to his already full hair.

“We shouldn’t be h—” Butsuma begins, only to be cut off by an exuberant chirp.

“We should, we shall, and we are, Sweetling,” Tajima fires right back. He continues to crow-hop through the courtyard of the inner shrine towards their table, seemingly unencumbered by Butsuma’s stiff-legged trepidation. The zenko stops resisting only after being dragged a quarter of the way, his pride in tatters. Finally, he gives in and lopes along.

Forgoing his exploration of their growing eggs, Tobirama sits up, eyes narrowed and suspicious. His distrust has something hot igniting under Madara’s breastbone in answer and it’s the fastest he can recall ever coming to anger. 

“What the hell, Tousan?” someone asks under their breath in a tea-kettle hiss. He only belatedly realizes it’s coming from him when Izuna glances at him sidelong, lips pursed to do exactly the same. Between them, he’s not typically the one slated for outbursts.

Izuna trills his bemusement and ducks his head to bump Madara’s shoulder, turning his attention back to Tajima and Butsuma’s ridiculous tableau without saying anything further. 

The main players in this evening’s debacle come to an abrupt halt before they trample Hashirama and Mito, instead apparently content to loom over them and drip. Blue fire flares each time Mito’s wings are accosted and the ever-present squadron of kodama come running with their little buckets before the tatami mats can go up in flame.

“Tajima, dear,” she warns, receiving nothing more than an up-tick at the corner of an already huge grin.

Tajima clears his throat and spreads his feathers wide in presentation. “Your attention, if you please,” he calls out, scanning through the assembly of faces—zenko and tengu alike—with his sightless eyes. “I have an announcement to make.”

The lamplight wavers and casts him in dramatic shadow long enough to shed another dram of his typically regal composure. Little clumps of drying duckweed begin to slip from his hair and the trailing ends of his kosode to patter against the flagstone. He cards his fingers through his bangs and discards an entire ecosystem over his shoulder. 

It’s then that Madara realizes the black and blue shadow devouring a quarter of his face isn’t a play of the light. His father has been struck and there’s only one possible offender. Whatever creature has been sharing his skin, progressively dominating his reactions over the past couple of hours, flares brighter than a nova. 

Before Tajima can say his piece, Madara gently eases Tobirama and Izuna away far enough to free his arms up for what promises to be a truly spectacular skirmish. His wings rise in overt threat. Chakra begins to gather in his chest, more dense than a thunderhead. It feels like a slow unfolding to regain his feet, one in which time narrows to a single point of murderous intent.

Though he hasn’t fully grown into it yet, there hasn’t been a daitengu with his power potential hatched in the entire length of their oral history. Butsuma is older, more experienced, stronger in both body and magics, but Madara will tear him down. He’ll find a way to rend that bizarre spark of hope from his vulpine expression and bury it under a fist the same as his father has suffered.

Once again, the thought that this ferocious call to arms isn’t characteristic of him rises and peters out in quick succession. Methodical tactics are more his purview if he knows brute strength won’t be enough—not that he’s outclassed often. Still, the anger builds knowing a member of his nest has been harmed.

“Tousan,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “what happened to your face?”

Butsuma’s attention snaps to him in an instant, eyes flashing amber, but settling almost immediately back to hazel.

“Oh, would you sit down and put the chakra away, brat,” Tajima tuts. “You act as if I haven’t raised you with any common decency at all.” He arches an eyebrow pointedly, confident in the fact that Madara will stand down by his word alone.

He does, but not with grace. Whatever impulse set him to posturing in the first place wavers.

Fortunately, Tobirama’s hands are there to guide him back to the tatami mats with a grasp firm enough to keep him there. As soon as he’s settled in seiza once again, Izuna sinks a hand into his inner coverts and noses at the feather of Tobirama’s gift, setting it to swinging. Strange that his otouto isn’t puffed up larger than a jay with how stark the bruise is on Tajima’s cheek.

Izuna is _always_ the one to dive bomb first. 

“Our eggs must be growing fast,” he murmurs into Madara’s neck, chuffing with restrained laughter. “You’re getting so broody.”

And that explains everything. 

Madara sighs, consciously forcing his fists to unfurl. He hadn’t thought allowing two yolks to descend simultaneously would make him quite so protective. This doesn’t bode well for when his mates are actually round with their eggs.

“Now, if you are quite done making a spectacle—”

Tobirama scoffs loudly.

“—I would like to discuss a matter of utmost importance,” Tajima continues. “It would appear there are forces at work of which I was unaware. I have been remiss in realizing the soul bond between myself and this glorious fox, and will be retiring from clan politics for the foreseeable future.”

That ‘glorious fox’ shifts in discomfort having so much focus shift to him. Or maybe it’s not the amount of notice, but the fact that Tobirama’s is included in that number. Butsuma seems different, no longer a dark, stoic golem—it’s in the rapidity of his breath, the way his pulse jumps when his eyes lock on the three of them. Untrusting, Madara takes Tobirama by the hip and pulls him flush, Izuna as well, before he cups his wings around them both.

Blood red seeps into the corners of his vision and Butsuma still won’t look away. 

“Hikaku, be a dear and lead our flock for me, hmm?” Tajima wheedles further, turning to regard Madara with his full attention. “And now, loves, it fills me with such joy to introduce you to your sire,” Tajima proclaims, upending the world in its entirety. 

Izuna stops breathing, but that’s okay, because Madara does too. There’s no air left in any and all possible futures for how still their chests become.

“I know, I know, ‘indiscretions in wartime’ and all of that nonsense; you can kindly keep your opinions on whom I fuck to yourselves,” he continues, waving off the aghast ripple of yips and barks. “Also, Tobirama, though I’ve already claimed you in my wing shadow, you bear my blood as well. Surprise! Small wonder you have my good looks.”

Tobirama freezes against Madara’s side in a way he hasn’t since that first day when he equated touch with pain—affection with abandonment. 

Unconcerned, Tajima claps his hands together and turns his face up into the lamplight, casting the very image of serenity and innocence. Paper lanterns continue to hover in the night sky above like descending stars and set the droplets of water on his brow to glimmering. “Not only have we found peace in these few short days, but undiscovered family as well. Truly, the kami do walk amongst us tonight.”

Of course they do. There could be no other explanation for this aura of magic in the air—this level of cruelty.

Madara doesn’t blame his father. He knows that for all of his eccentricities, Tajima has always loved them and fought for their happiness with every ounce of his strength down to the quill. It’s just that the timing of these revelations is _abysmal_. Here Madara is, straining to keep his mates pressed as close as possible with viable eggs in his belly and no way of knowing if things have changed. Izuna and Tobirama aren’t pulling away—neither one—but they could, and that fact is terrifying beyond measure.

Izuna audibly relearns how to breath and settles his attention on Butsuma, gaze unflinching.

Mistrust or mourning—both lend the same distinctly charred scent to his otouto’s plumage and it’s an insight that has Madara fighting not to bare his teeth. He knows there’s no reason for sorrow, so it must be suspicion, but his instincts can’t differentiate between the two. The only things keeping him from surging over the chabudai against his father’s command are Tobirama’s fluttering lashes against his neck and the pheromones rolling off of their supposed sire in waves.

They reek of char as well and his bearing says nothing of mistrust.

Fuck. 

“Tousan, this isn’t funny,” Izuna trills, voice pitched low and ending in a warble. Only then does he look away and Madara struggles to understand why the zenko seems to wilt without being watered by Izuna’s notice. 

Tajima tosses his head and the movement is enough to snap Madara’s attention to him quicker than a tercel.

“Then how fortunate that I’m not jesting. You know there are to be no secrets amongst family,” Tajima pronounces as if he isn’t the worst offender. Feathers rustling, he flutters his wings wide and low, permeating the night with the comforting scent of his plumage oil, overriding all others.

He winks at Madara and continues to fans his wings, kicking up a gentle breeze that feels like an embrace and smells like home, home, home.

This time, when Madara blinks, he opens his eyes to an abrupt onset of clarity.

Indra’s balls he wishes this conversation wasn’t being had while hormone addled.

“I know you have questions, loves, but tonight is for sleep. Tomorrow you are welcome to pluck me until you pull out an explanation that satisfies.”

With his head clear and thinking sharp, Madara wonders what could possibly satisfy more than rewinding time and reworking everything that has come before? An hour, two hours, a hundred years? He shudders with repressed emotion and exhales long and slow to ease the ache in his chest. Neither he nor Izuna have ever cared to have another father when Tajima was always enough to fill the flight harness of two.

That’s not to say they’re averse to welcoming Tousan’s joy and tolerating Butsuma’s company, but he has to wonder, why here? Why now? 

“I’m so glad I could impart such fantastical news to those I love most and now, it is time to retire.”

For the night, for perpetuity, both are implied.

“Come along, Sweetling.”

Butsuma elegantly flows forward to accept Tajima’s hand in the crook of his elbow. The zenko stays silent all the while, expressing none of the vitriol of prior meetings. No sharp words, no flashing eyes. There’s only a contriteness permeating every subtle twitch of fur, tail, or ear when anyone but Tajima moves, particularly Tobirama.

Just as Izuna is about to say something more, another wing is added atop of Madara’s to restrain him. 

“With all due respect, have you lost your damned mind?” Hikaku speaks up, and it’s only then that Madara realizes he’s even there next to Izuna. The fact that other yōkai exist in the universe is a revelation for all that his blinders are strapped tight. 

“Hikaku, I implore you not to ask questions you already know the answer to. Now, be a dear and bring along a platter of meat with you to our aerie. Near death experiences do so incite the palate.”

Near death?

Tajima rolls on like an avalanche—beautiful, arresting, and unstoppable. “Kagami, kits, we’re having a sleepover tonight! Won’t that be fun? Gather your things, the night is growing long for little talons and paws.”

Hikaku soundlessly works his mouth for a long moment, completely at a loss. He drags his hand down his face when it becomes obvious that there’s no point in arguing. His subtle, but near-constant fidgeting with the rings on his flight harness stops. It’s the first time Madara has ever seen him lose his composure so wholly in mixed company, though that seems to be the theme of the night. Of this entire three-day event, honestly.

Inhaling, Hikaku rises from his tatami mat with none of the stiffness he typically has after sitting for so long. “Fine. But I’m bringing sake.” He hooks the neck of a tokori and cradles it close to his chest. The ceramic squeaks against the leather of his harness like a field mouse held fast in an owl’s talons. A second soon follows to clink against the first.

“Ah, no thank you. Sobriety will be my preferred drink for such a momentous occasion,” Tajima politely declines.

“I didn’t say it was for you.”

Laughter fills the courtyard, high and sweet like tubular bells. “Drinking to forget. Very good! You’re well on your way to being a consummate flock head yet,” Tajima twitters.

Interesting how Butsuma’s chakra flutters when he looks between them. Even more interesting how uncertainty plays out on a face Madara once thought carved out of stone. Brown tails flick out in a wave, both sinuous and telling.

There will be some assumptions in need of clarification, Madara suspects.

A low rumble starts up from over a dozen vulpine throats once it seems that the spectacle is dying down. Nothing threatening, simply chatter. Tajima coos his way into the good graces of another set of children and chortles at Butsuma’s gentle rebuke when he encourages them to perch on his shoulders. Kagami forgoes any and all propriety—as he is wont to do—and drags his…his shapeshifting playmate along to leap and flap up to be captured in a midair hug.

They make a gentle picture. Butsuma’s hand supporting the small of Tajima’s back, a troop of chicks and kits weighing them down.

This is something Madara will have, too. Soon. Unless things have changed between him and his mates over the course of the evening. He swallows heavily.

“Where are they going,” Izuna exclaims, puffing up under his wing, “I have _questions_.”

“Tomorrow, Otouto,” Madara sings, nipping at the shell of his ear, just above Tobirama’s hoshi no tama. It pulses with light at the touch and laces his words with a melody that resonates far deeper than his alone. Tajima and Butsuma have their own bond to explore. Tonight’s story belongs to Madara’s mates and he intends to keep it that way.

“I would like to leave now,” Tobirama states, baritone voice low enough to rumble past the rising cacophony of yips. It takes Madara by surprise to hear him so sullen, though it shouldn’t. “Our eggs will not develop properly if you are stressed and being here,” he flicks his ears towards the bustle of light and sound, “is not conducive to relaxation.”

Oh. _Oh._

Then they’re still going to make a family after all.


	32. Tobirama's POV

The moon is bright here on the cliff-face Tobirama retreats to when the world feels too small. It’s late enough that all of the paper lanterns have finally descended, but even kitsune flame pales in comparison to the conflagration of life he has been steadily coaxing along in Madara’s womb. 

Much has happened over the past couple of days. If he were to stop and consider those events in detail—pick them apart as is his nature—he doubts he would be able to find a single thread of logic interspersed amongst the sensation of rightness. Of belonging. Both of their species are long lived, yet Tobirama can’t help but feel that every second lost in waiting is a mortal wounding. He needs this, them, the misplaced pieces of his soul. 

Tonight he resolves to make up for that lost time.

“Oh, wow. This is really pretty,” Izuna whispers so as not to disturb the fireflies bobbing on the draft of his breath. 

“Stunning,” Madara agrees, because he and Izuna are nothing if not in sync with their preferences. 

It is a gorgeous vista on which to tarry and enjoy an evening. Or perhaps it’s just that Tobirama himself was born to share their predilection for lovely backdrops for serious thoughts.

Grass tickles the pads of his paws as it bows underfoot. Dew wets his fur, makes it cling between his toes. It’s all so familiar, and he’s thankful he has been given the opportunity to share these subtle pleasures with the tengu who have so captured his heart. He squats down and sits on the grass, heedless of how the moisture musses his fur. A prolonged sigh has Madara dropping to his knees without allowing for a single hand-span between their bodies. 

The fire in him is ferocious and Tobirama can only bask in that conflagration pressed up close. A low, unintentional whine escapes him, too late to be recalled.

“Are you okay?” Madara asks. His misplaced concern is blunt, honest...appreciated.

Glancing at him sidelong, Tobirama smiles and cradles Madara’s waist with the tail that resonates most with his soul. The feathers are indistinguishable from those massive pinions they’re modeled after. “I am,” he replies simply. When Izuna drops down to the grass on his other side and immediately surges up onto his lap, warbling, Tobirama realizes that a simple answer won’t suffice. 

“I’m well. I was merely considering the bounty of blessings I have been given in the form of two rather lovely tengu.”

The sudden flare of satisfaction is a welcome change of pace.

“Well,” he continues, helping Izuna to settle his long, bird-like thighs around his hips, “at least lovely when averaged. How fortunate for this mediocre creature in my lap that his brother is a gift from the divine to compensate.”

“Hey!”

Trilling until his song crescendos into a piecing whistle, Izuna butts Tobirama’s chin with his forehead. The meaning is obvious. Tobirama is learning their love language and quickly establishing his own. He leans down to gently nip Izuna’s nose, following the sensation of teeth with a kiss that speaks the words he can’t seem to voice. Nuzzling into Izuna’s hair pulls forth the scent of a new definition of family. 

“I suppose I’ll have to make due,” he murmurs with the same weight as ‘I love you.’

“Nice subject change,” Madara chides in his soothing baritone. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

It’s not that he’s intentionally deflecting, but Tobirama can see how his mate would think so. One last kiss to Izuna’s forehead and he presses that beloved face—pale as the moon with a smile twice as bright—into his neck to rest against his pulse.

“Madara…” Tobirama huffs and reaches up to tug on a lock of night-deep hair. “I am, in all honesty, fine. Your father is my own, as he has been since he gifted me his pinion. This fact is not adulterated by the revelation of a blood bond. Our pasts remain unchanged, as does the future we now share. I only tease because enjoying the two of you is a more preferable engagement than lingering on past wrongs.”

Grudges are a lifelong commitment and one that festers over time. He’s through with keeping resentment as his closest bedfellow when there is much more pleasant company to be had. Tenderness, affection, and dedication will be his companions from hence forth. 

He pauses—swallows heavily enough to make Izuna’s head shift under the motion as he realizes that compassion, unpracticed as he is in it, will be another skill to hone and hold. It’s impossible to resist the lure of pushing Madara’s hair aside. The moonlight glimmers on high cheekbones and a strong jaw, resplendent.

“And are you well?” Tobirama asks, unconsciously pulsing reassurance through Madara’s hoshi no tama.

His instinct proves to be right.

Madara sucks in a breath long and slow, but doesn’t pull away. “I have a belly full of chicks and no idea where we stand now that Tousan decided to show his ass. What do you think?”

Ah. With all of the protective chakra Tobirama has been imbuing their kits’ eggshells with over the course of the evening he had thought his intentions clear. In a strange way, it’s nice to be pined after, but not at the expense of his mate’s confidence in their bond.

“I am no less committed to our bond than I was this afternoon,” he reaffirms. “I want nothing more than to spend my hours, my days, my years loving my mates and this family Inari has seen fit to bless me with.”

There. Blunt honesty. Tobirama can learn and he can learn quickly when the stakes are this high. 

“Butsuma will always be a presence in my life; this is something I am not pleased by, but will grow to accept. I cannot forgive him for his absenteeism regardless of the excuses he may have. However, my opinion on the matter shouldn’t preclude Tajima from discovering joy in their bond, nor you from pursuing a relationship with the sire you never knew if that is something of interest. Do not let my opinions skew your own and do not for a second doubt the veracity of my commitment no matter your choice.”

Madara’s eyes slip shut and his chin grows heavy in Tobirama’s hand, but he doesn’t pull away. Izuna snuffles against Tobirama’s neck, turns to stroke what plumage he can reach without leaving the warmth of skin behind. 

“Okay. Yeah. That’s—that’s good,” Izuna pipes up when his brother chirps instead of using words.

Compromise  _ is  _ good, isn’t it? And in that vein…

“I believe I’ve made my stance clear. Though I have to wonder, what is it  _ you _ want, Madara?” Tobirama inquires, echoing the same words that Madara had used when they first learned how to touch. Their tentative coming together seems so long ago now—a different chapter of their lives altogether.

Madara stirs, his eyes glowing from under long lashes.

“What do I want? Other than to have Tajima gagged for his own safety? Right now I want to fight everything, cry, and fuck my mates all at the same time,” he says dryly, blinking long and slow. His movements are languid, relaxed in a way his words aren’t. Dangerous. “Tousan’s bullshit doesn’t even matter. I’m just…I don’t know what the hell is going on. It would be nice to be able to think clearly for two damn seconds.”

Though he doesn’t say it outright, the aura of his uncertainty—of his worry—speaks volumes.

Perhaps Tobirama had been a bit too eager in encouraging their eggs to develop throughout the evening. Kitsune have always been gifted in fertility magics, but Hashirama taught him how to take that further—how to coax hardiness into being from otherwise delicate beginnings. He’s not as strong as his anija, but he is significantly more well practiced from his time in the shrine. It’s just that he hadn’t realized there were traces of Inari’s gift already housed in Madara’s blood to account for. There was no way he could have foreseen how his enthusiasm could lead to such a powerful somatic response.

Maybe Tobirama should have waited to ask first.

He half purrs in placation as he focuses chakra into his fingertips—exploratory this time—and follows the familiar path between the layers of Madara’s haori and kosode. It’s exactly as he thought. They’re ready. The yolks are already so pristinely formed, the egg-shells ovoid and hard. Regardless of the pressure or heat applied, they will thrive in their metamorphic cloister. They will be strong, healthy, and, above all, well-loved. 

“Those reactions are to be expected,” he says, distracted. Anticipation warms him from within as surely as a ray of sun. 

In his lap, Izuna stirs, sits up to consider him strangely—head cocked and a lopsided grin steadily carving dimples into his cheeks. He glances between them for a moment, then seems to find what he’s looking for. “Nii-san’s going to kill you,” he mouths with exaggerated emphasis, giddy in his cleverness.

This mate of his has a wicked mind, Tobirama is finding, but there’s a breakdown somewhere along the path between thought and expression where any sort of subtlety is lost altogether.

And his brother is so very observant. 

“Oh, I’m going to do more than that. What the fuck did you do, Tobirama?”

Madara’s wings extend like the cowl of night around them. The brush of coverts along Tobirama’s forearm, the rasp of feathers as Izuna reaches out to touch and stroke them in passing…Tobirama would give up his hoshi no tama all over again just to stay here like this. 

“I made a minor miscalculation,” he admits, still intent on his probing but not so much that he is immune to the passion and intensity of Madara’s voice. He breathes faster, leans in so close the gravity of lips is an impossible force to resist. Izuna’s weight on his lap is an easy burden to bear as they all share each other’s space. 

“Our eggs are viable and ready for implantation now,” he whispers, eyes fluttering closed as he crosses the scant centimeters between them to offer up the taste of his truth. Madara is pliant, but still in his startlement and Tobirama moves away before their kiss can be anything more than chaste. The same gift is bestowed on the plushness of Izuna’s lips with similar result.

He leaves devastation in his wake in the form of a low, steady keening.

It’s not quite clear who the sound belongs to. Maybe all of them. Maybe the gods.

Madara rallies his wits first, though it’s with obvious effort, muscular wings flexing to reveal the stars beyond. “Your chakra…that’s why I’ve been a mess all night.” It’s an observation—not a question, not a condemnation.

“Most likely,” Tobirama agrees. “I had only intended to foster resilience in the shells of our young, though it seems my eagerness was perhaps a touch too well received. Our blood is potent in combination.” This time when he activates Inari’s seals, he makes sure that the call is something Madara can feel. Two tender bundles of possibility spark under his touch.

Vibrant.

Electric.

Madara is too consummate a soldier to jolt visibly, but Tobirama notes the way his skin trembles with the knowledge that, yes, this is happening. The plan they had discussed under the lantern light is coming to fruition sooner than expected and tonight will not only be about the bestowal of one offering, but two.

“Izuna, off,” Madara says abruptly, though there’s no danger from the underlying flame in his eyes. He shoves at his brother, who sways and keeps his thighs stubbornly clamped around Tobirama. 

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “There is literally nothing that could make me move right now.” Cheeping, Izuna continues to smile so wide his teeth reflect the moon.

“I’m brooding worse than I ever have and you’re lucky I’m even bothering to count to three,” Madara intones. “One.”

A single talon rises and the effect is immediate. Izuna curls his wings and slams back to the grass with an explosive huff. He wriggles and snakes himself just far enough to fling his arms and legs out wide like a dejected starfish. “This isn’t fair. I was comfortable,” he complains to the world at large.

“‘Literally nothing’?” Tobirama scoffs. In his distraction, he doesn’t think to question why Izuna is so quick to fall in line.

The answer bowls him over in the form of a tengu in his prime with far too much strength for one yōkai and the power of an augmented pregnancy flaring bright enough to blind. Tobirama takes his mate’s weight without even an ounce of grace. His tails whip wildly and he thrashes on instinct, but by the Sage, Madara is not nearly the pushover Hashirama is.

Talons dig into the dirt at precisely the right angle to block any attempt at escape. 

“You did this on purpose, you oni’s ass!” Madara hisses. “Hold still and take your punishment.”

Grass rips and the scent of soil fills the air while they struggle. Izuna’s bemusement is a merry accompaniment—raucous birdsong with none of the playacted offense from only a moment ago.

Grunting, they battle for dominance until Madara breaks past Tobirama’s guard and shrieks his victory. He catches Tobirama’s wrists more skillfully than a falcon’s dive, using his long canons to block Tobirama’s knees and effectively put him in stocks. Incredulity and arousal flare in equal measure.

Tobirama isn’t used to being bested. 

As ferocious as his instincts rebel against being rendered impotent, he can’t stop watching the way his mate’s chest heaves, the ripple of muscle obvious even under layers of silk. Firm buttocks settle on his hips to keep them down. Warm, so warm against him. 

“This,” Tobirama pants, rutting up against the softness on offer, “is a very poor castigation.”

Madara rolls his eyes. “You ask first next time, understood?”

Tobirama’s pupils dilate on the suggestion of a next time. He nods once, too caught up in the imagining to string words together.

“Good.”

Satisfied, the challenge drains from Madara’s grip. He sits up and allows his talons to draw goose flesh down Tobirama’s arms in their wake. His weight shifts in a way that can only be described as divine. Strong thighs counterbalance the sheer breadth of his wingspan and Tobirama remembers how soft those downy feathers feel sliding against skin and fur. If not for a single blasted pair of hakama, he’d be reliving the pleasure.

“Promise me.”

“I give you my word not to impose on your autonomy without consent,” Tobirama offers up without hesitation. Another gentle lesson imparted by a patient hand and a skill he will find joy in practicing. “My apologies.” 

Madara smiles down at him and chirps back over his shoulder for his brother. In an instant, Izuna is there, half draped over his shoulders and peppering his cheek with a dozen sweet kisses.

They’re so beautiful together. Tobirama knows it’s a thought that repeatedly comes to him, but their comfortable ease with each other is worth noting each and every time. They’re open and carefree with their love, expressing it in a thousand ways and always finding an excuse to touch no matter the circumstance. 

Oh. 

Heat floods Tobirama’s stomach and makes it squirm in understanding. His inclusion in their affections was such a subtle shift in paradigm. Only now does he realize he hasn’t gone a single moment without one or both of them pressed up against him this evening.

They’ve slotted into place so naturally.

“You’re a mess, Nii-san,” Izuna croons, fingertips mapping the exposed V of Madara’s chest, “let’s get you back to the nest, hmm?”

He says nest, but all Tobirama hears is ‘home’.


	33. Izuna's POV- Rated E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you are uncomfortable with unconventional anatomy/sex, feel free to skip this chapter. Otherwise, enjoy the sexytimes and oviposition.

Was it Izuna’s suggestion to return to their nest? Yes.

Was it with the intent of making them all comfortable enough to spread tail-feathers repeatedly until they were all numb from the waist down? Also yes.

Nii-san hates fucking outside, and no matter how into it he may seem at first, there’s always unsexy hell to pay once he notices that’s dirt under his knees instead of pillows. Which is fair. Coming usually puts him right to sleep and nobody enjoys waking up slit-deep in an ant hill. Izuna _knows_ this; he’s a good, thoughtful mate who is very much not into orgasm denial, thank you very much.

But, as considerate as the suggestion was—maybe a little self-serving, too—he hadn’t thought to factor in the time it would take to walk back. He spends long minutes quaffing the sight of his mates, observing the anticipation in their steps and how sweetly Tobirama and Madara’s fingers tangle. No hesitation, no flinching. It’s a show of affection so simple and pure he can’t help but smile against the rising inferno in his chest.

This is becoming real and he doesn’t know if he’s quite as emotionally prepared as he thought he would be. 

They’re going to have a family all their own. Madara, Tobirama, and all the little Eggshells that can possibly fit into their shared heart are going to be here, safe and protected in Izuna’s arms. It’s not a genjutsu. No fever dream, either.

Without a war to sink his talons into, he’ll be able to be present in Madara’s life the way he’s always wanted to be. Greeting each morning with lazy kisses will be the norm, not the exception, and the slow-burning fire that’s always so close to the surface will be tempered to nurture instead of devour. They’ll be together, _always_.

And Tobirama.

Izuna rubs at the sudden pang in his chest as if it’s a physical ache.

Tobirama will be the perch they rub smooth under their time and care—a beloved jess to always remind them that no matter how far they fly, there will always be a loving home to return to.

Another surge of emotion drags him under. Izuna is only one yōkai; he can’t help but be overwhelmed by the immensity of having a lifetime of joy drift into his palms, unexpected and sweet as chick down. Pine, fire, lavender, stardust—he can parse out the scent memory of two clans combined in his mates’ wake and it’s all he can do to keep from calling out just to see them both turn to look at him with matching eyes.

The air seems to grow thicker. Or maybe it’s just the building pressure behind his cheekbones. Shit. He promised himself he wouldn’t cry ever again, not after their first failed egg. Never again, yet here he is succumbing to his own weakness for what feels like the hundredth time in a three-day span. At least this time his tears are couched in hope. Unabashed joy. 

He rustles his wings to cover a long, sniffling inhale.

Ahead of him, Tobirama’s ears immediately swivel low and to the side. “Izuna,” he calls back over his shoulder, “our mate’s hands are frigid and I can only warm the one. Pretend competency and aid me.”

Wait. What? Izuna dashes away the welling tears with his wrist and cocks his head in confusion. Tengu don’t get cold like that—neither do kitsune for that matter. Why would…oh, that was clever, Tobirama. Not a subtle ploy by any means, but clever.

With his face pale as milk in the moonlight, it’s easy to catch the way Tobirama’s lips tilt in a soft, understanding smile. Then he resumes attending to Madara’s indistinct conversation without saying anything further.

He doesn’t need to.

Izuna crow hops quickly to close the distance and latches onto Madara’s free arm, rubbing his cheek against a firm deltoid. Nii-san’s muscles are the best pillows and he lets out a burst of birdsong to that effect.

Familiar calluses rasp against his own and Izuna’s fingertips settle into the divots between his brother’s knuckles. The maelstrom in his mind whips to an abrupt end. It’s just that easy.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Madara points out, leaning over to nuzzle Izuna’s temple even as their stride eats away at the distance between past and future.

“I’ve just been thinking.”

“Which we both know leads to nothing good. Knock it off,” Madara quips, butting their heads together gently, but maybe a little harder than either of them expected. What’s visible of his forehead shimmers with sweat in the evening air and his eyes are nearly black with how dilated his pupils have become.

“Wow. You’re really, really egg drunk, aren’t you?” Izuna cheeps, taking his life in his hands. Fortunately for the possibility of any future chick-making, Madara doesn’t follow up on the blatant threat in his spinning sharingan. If anything, the way his gaze pans down Izuna’s body and back up is more arousing than anything.

“And who is the brat who did this to me in the first place?” Madara rumbles, wing arching to bully Izuna in even closer to his side.

Thickly muscled and broad, there’s no resisting the pull even if Izuna wasn’t already eager to feel his brother’s, his mate’s, heartbeat slam out a steady beat beneath his ear. A little finesse and he’s able to slip under Madara’s arm to press them flush. Their fingers remain laced throughout the shuffle because under all of that gruffness is a tengu with nothing but affection to give. 

Izuna trills his contentedness. “It’s not nice to call Tobirama names,” he points out, blinking coquettishly. 

It takes a second for Madara to process the quip, after which he groans, long, heartfelt, and low enough to feel. “Indra’s balls, I would throttle you if you wouldn’t like it so much.”

Tobirama snorts, shaking his head. “Perhaps I could try my ‘brat’tish hand at it instead?”

It’s all just so damn easy the way they’ve fallen together—like sand shifting in to fill in each other’s voids. Izuna’s heart is no less overflowing, but riposting back and forth with his mates is exactly the steam valve he needed. The mood is infectious. His smile grows wide as they try to one up each other’s progressively more inane nonsense. 

The rest of the walk back to their aerie is slow, interspersed with good-natured teasing, roving hands, and kisses both stolen and shared.

Not a single second is wasted between them.

They have a hundred years’ worth to make up, after all.

It’s only as his talons catch on smooth, planed wood that Izuna exists in his own body and not as a part of a three-piece whole. He startles, catching himself on a convenient balustrade before he can topple backwards over it, taking Tobirama and his unrefined, but eager tongue with him.

On second thought, there are worse things than being pinned under all of that delicious skin. Maybe he can go back in time and do it all over again?

Before he can suggest as much, Madara is there, cheeks ruddy and a tremble in his hands as he pulls them both back upright—Izuna by the short feathers on his chest, Tobirama by the nape. It stings, but nowhere near as much as it could have. There’s not a bald patch this time, at least.

“I’ve been patient tonight, haven’t I? Kind, calm, centered.”

Not particularly. Unless those words are secret substitutes for ‘broody, temperamental, and unrepentantly horny’. 

Madara sweeps on without giving them the chance to respond. “The answer is ‘yes’. I’ve been a very good hen and I swear to Indra’s empty eye socket I’m going to show you what it means to be a thrice damned harpy if you don’t stop screwing around, get to the nest, and fuck these eggs out of me!”

Ah, a poet, Izuna thinks. How could any yōkai resist such nuanced seduction tactics? And he might have said that out loud if Madara’s thunderous expression is anything to go by. 

Without warning, his kind, calm, centered Nii-san tugs Tobirama, entirely willing, into his arms and goes up on his toes to steal any kind of breath he ever had from him. White fur and black feathers, Izuna’s own courting haori being pushed away from shoulders a bit too broad for it to begin with. The image is an extravagant example of the artistry of passion.

Izuna licks his lips in sympathy for how summarily Tobirama is devoured by a mouth he knows from experience was made to topple empires. A steady whine kicks up in accompaniment to the wet sounds of their lips, the smooth slide of skin and silk.

Finally wrenching himself back, Madara stares at Tobirama and zeroes in on the glimmering smear of saliva around his mouth. Izuna can see the way his talons dimple their mate’s biceps from here.

“I’m fucking you first,” Madara croons, articulating each syllable with deadly accuracy.

_“I’m fucking you first,” Madara croons, articulating each syllable with deadly accuracy._

Which, while amusing to hear commanded so casually, should be a given. Tonight Madara’s passion belongs to Tobirama—their miraculous third whose flash-fire devotion has given them everything they could have ever possibly dreamed of. This is about pleasure, yes, but also so much more.

It’s about making a promise deeper than words.

“As you will it,” Tobirama answers, voice steady while his everything else sways and whips in anticipation. The blue silk of their haori floats on his tails’ draft, allowing the moonlight between its panels to cast his arousal in sharp relief.

Madara smirks at the easy capitulation. His tail feathers spread wide in invitation as he steps back towards the door, beckoning Tobirama to follow. The smolder of his glare is anything but off-putting. In fact, the challenge—combined with the underpinning of fertility in his forge-bright scent—serves as a distinctly savory enticement.

Trapped in his gravity, Tobirama follows.

The door slides open silently on its casters—a skill picked up through a thousand scenarios acted out just like this one, except with Izuna filling Tobirama’s roll. If it were any other night, he would be whining about being ignored or insinuating himself into the middle of whatever pleasure was about to be had. This is different, though.

For all that his slit rails at him for the thought, it's pretty nice to be on the outside looking in.

It’s like he’s been gifted the responsibility of recording a pivotal moment in time. He alone will know what his mates’ bodies look like intertwined and tied—inseparable. His eyes will be the only ones trusted to hold the image of their first egg transfer and lock it in their hearts.

It’s a heady knowledge. Overpowering.

A warm rumble against his temple has Izuna startling and surfacing from his thoughts in a hurry. Dull pain comes to the forefront of his notice when he realizes he’s tried to snap his wings open while standing within the door frame. Tobirama chuckles and eases away the embarrassment by kissing where his cheek had rested before.

Oh. Oh, the vice around Izuna’s chest isn’t emotion. He’s being hugged. Feels like paradise.

“Come back to us. You’re drifting again,” Tobirama points out, “and we need your paltry colony of brain cells present for this.” He chuffs, the noise a little strange, and nips Izuna’s nose with nothing but pure affection. 

Izuna doesn’t want to imagine a single day bereft of this constant, but gentle teasing.

“Yeah, yeah. You just want someone to fluff the pillows and light the lamps for you,” he quips back. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he hears a snap and light sweeps through the aerie, blooming in a half-dozen lanterns. It wavers in a wash of yellows and reds, splashing patterns across their nest more vibrant and awe-inspiring than the Northern lights. 

Already bare to the waist, Madara shifts his weight and plants a fist on his hip, his other hand still upraised and crackling with chakra. “You were saying?” he asks dryly. 

Show off. 

Flicking his ears back towards Izuna, Tobirama snorts and allows his arms to slip down to his waist, then away. 

“I suppose there are still pillows in need of fluffing.” 

Coy isn’t a description that suits him, but it’s all that comes to mind when he tugs on Izuna’s obi and turns away without breaking eye-contact until the last second. 

Red irises under white lashes...Izuna’s heartbeat throbs all the way down to his slit. If their chicks take after Tobirama and Madara in looks, no yōkai will be able to resist the draw. He’ll be dive-bombing potential mates into the canyons left and right. 

Suddenly, it’s like his imaginings have come to life in the way the room spins. His wings slam open and back to mitigate the impact. Instead of crumbling rock, his shoulders meet pillows and his lungs fill with a plume of mate-scent, of home. In an instant, Madara is over him, on him, catching his wrists over his head and grinding down against the places they burn the hottest. “You had better start listening tonight, Otouto. I have a one-track mind right now and I don’t have the patience to repeat myself anymore.”

Huh, apparently Madara and Tobirama had still been talking? Madara sure as hell seems to have shucked his hakama in that liminal space between Izuna’s thoughts and his existence in the corporeal world. He supposes he has been zoning out a lot tonight, but it’s not his fault. His poor heart just can’t take any more gifts from the kami.

He looks up from within the curtain of Madara’s hair and his world is subsumed by a handsome face, made even more so by the desperation to mate etched in the lines of those high cheekbones. “Okay,” he whistles, unresisting, “anything you want.” A pause. “You’re my sky, Nii-san.”

Exhaling long and slow, Madara presses down to gift him with a kiss, then pushes up out of reach before it can become anything more. “Love you too,” he chirps back. “Now be good for me, Koibito. Like I just said, I’m going to give Tobirama an egg first and then I’ll take care of you. I don’t want you touching yourself, though, understand? Hands off until I can stretch you myself.” 

Izuna cocks his head in hopes that looking at his brother from another angle will give him insight into why it matters if he works himself up a little bit. When no answer is forthcoming, he grins and sings a string of cheeps. Sure. No fingers stuffing his slit, he can do that.

Satisfied, Madara breathes out. When had he even begun to hold his breath? The return of softness to both his grip and his expression is a return to normalcy. “Alright. Good,” he says.

Silly Nii-san. Izuna watches his brother dismount, slit already dampening the feathers between his thighs and staining them even darker. There’s a peculiar note of freneticism in the way he crawls across the nest and shoves Tobirama down onto his back. It’s as if he’s in a hurry to see them both through to the end. Izuna supposes that’s just the hormones talking, though. They’ve been through the egg-making process before and—while Madara was never this intense—it certainly ramped up his appetites.

Bemused, Izuna flicks his ponytail over his shoulder and fluffs the pillows behind him so that he can recline more comfortably for the show. He wonders if their poor, sweet fox is ever going to have a chance to discover the wonders of foreplay…

A brief conversation, a growl emanating from two throats, and Tobirama’s long legs are snapping around Madara’s hips faster than a pair of adders.

…apparently not.

Madara’s wings arch as he spreads his knees for leverage and settles into position. That beloved shadow sweeps out to include Izuna beneath the pinions he so adores. He doesn’t know why he can’t look away from the variegation of feathers to follow that first wet slap of bodies. Not even Tobirama’s victory cry at the success of his shape-changing sways him.

Maybe—maybe their chicks will have wings like Madara’s. 

Finally, he looks back to his mates—rutting so close to him the sheets pull away with each thrust. 

The long, powerful line of Madara's spine flexes in a way Izuna hasn’t witnessed before only because he’s never been cogent enough to look properly while they make love. Shadow races along each divot of muscle. Sweat gathers to reflect the lantern light. His brother is the most beautiful tengu he's ever seen and it truly is an honor to watch him work his hips—to commit this moment of unabashed intimacy to memory for centuries to come. And beneath him Tobirama is no less radiant, snarling and snapping in an instinctual bid for more, faster, now. 

Their inexperienced mate clings so tightly that Madara's buttocks dimple under his grasping fingertips. He pants like a thing possessed, thrashing even as he drags his claws up the small of Madara's back to urge him on. The lines of angry pink welts left in his wake only accentuate a thickly muscled waist and all the mercy Madara doesn't have. 

Izuna knows precisely how all-consuming it is to be pinned down and taken apart piece by piece until nothing is left but the echoes of pleasure. Kisses, light, stroking touches, the comfort of coming back to reality wrapped in the embrace of a yokai who would move the world if that's what needed doing. He’s experienced it all. There’s no aspect of Madara’s affections he hasn't sampled and fallen madly, deeply in love with.

Nii-san's joy is worth going to war for. It's also worth the rigors of stopping one. 

He can't wait for Tobirama to discover the same.

As if on cue, Tobirama throws his head back and keens through clenched teeth. He's already close. The pleasure of having a slit filled to the brim by half a century of skill overwhelms him as surely as Madara's fist around his vulpine cock. Clear fluid dribbles from his tip with each upstroke. Praise pours from his lips on every down stroke.

They’re both so perfect.

“Fuck.”

Biting down on his lower lip, Izuna tugs his hakama ties loose and kicks the material down to his ankles. He flexes his talons just enough to feel the burn of them along his inner thighs. His coverts part as easily as Tobirama's legs and the patterns he draws are identical to those Madara usually brands amongst his quills. It's the sweetest torture to watch but not touch.

Surely he’s allowed this much?

His cockhead eases past the lips of his slit against his will, reaching, searching for the mates it can sense, but not taste. And okay, maybe Izuna has more command of his body than that, but if Madara says anything, he’s absolutely going to deny it.

It’s cruelty of the highest order not to be able to touch himself. Technically, he was only told to keep his hands off.

Malicious compliance is still compliance. 

He’s going to be in _so much trouble_.

He laughs softly, the sound lost between the grunts and moans of his mates’ pleasure, and echoes them soon after as his tip arches down to tease at the lower lips of his slit. Without fanfare, his cock eases into the warmth of his own channel. It’s all he can do to keep from calling out. Amazing how intense the sensation of clenching warmth simultaneously in and around him can be with such a visual feast to lock on. Imagining himself being spitted between Madara and Tobirama as they writhe is almost too easy.

Madara continues to rut into Tobirama as if driving his hips harder will make them one. If only their little kitsune would give him what Izuna knows his Nii-san needs to work their eggs out of himself. Pressure—great sucking pressure around the base of his cock to milk the egg up, through, and out into Tobirama’s awaiting womb. 

The position isn’t right.

"Pull your legs back," Izuna murmurs under his breath as the wet smack of pleasure seems to increase exponentially. And by some miracle, Tobirama hears him.

Pale hands give up their stranglehold on Madara's hair to sweep up under equally pale knees. He pulls his thighs against his chest with little hesitation. The angle shifts. Neither one of them is prepared. Madara chokes on ecstasy, but Tobirama...Tobirama screams. 

Release spurts across his bunched abdominals and splashes the underside of his chin as he shudders through wave after wave of orgasm. His ears twitch spasmodically, his paws curl, and the hoshi no tama in Izuna's ear flares in sympathy with the soul-deep release. 

It’s only when overstimulation is plain in Tobirama’s wide, desperate eyes that Madara slows, but doesn’t stop. They drink each other’s air and gorge themselves on wet, uncoordinated kisses.

Izuna has seen this before. Or at least he’s been on the receiving end of what he knows is causing Tobirama to arch under the sensation of being filled by far more than an over-eager cock. Tengu eggs start out small, but Nii-san is well endowed for their breed and the added girth is a lot. It takes a surprising amount of brute force to get them in and settled just right.

How two growing chicks will ever fit inside Tobirama—even with the kitsune propensity for shape-shifting—is beyond him. They’ll be alright, though. If Izuna can’t share the welcome burden of incubating their eggs, he can sure as hell help in other ways. 

He’s a passable cook when he doesn’t lose interest half-way through. Music may not be as prevalent in kitsune culture, but Tobirama seems to appreciate his singing voice? There are other things, too, skills that don’t involve bloodshed. They’re just a lot harder to come up and, in the end, there’s nothing that Izuna wouldn’t work at for his mates, gravid or otherwise. 

Nothing at all.

Another prolonged grunt of effort and this time when Tobirama cries out, it’s a wavering note that climbs into a register that’s all tengu. His pleasure culminates in sharp little hitches and a soul-deep groan that sounds like dying before he collapses under Madara’s weight. 

Sex noises are a little ridiculous when Izuna’s not on the receiving end, though the mild humor he feels fizzles out quickly, far outweighed by his awe. The dichotomy of his mates—black and white, broad and lithe, skill and unabashed enthusiasm—is a study in opposites, yet here they work in perfect conjunction to coax life between them.

And that’s only the first egg.

Licking his lips, Izuna pushes himself to sit up a little straighter. The pressure of his own cock shifts in his slit and he can’t help the mild gasp it tears out of him.

In an instant, Madara’s head snaps around, gaze locking first on Izuna’s slack mouth, then panning lower. He breathes heavily with the exertion of screwing Tobirama through all seventy-five thousand different layers of nest, but even that doesn’t stop him from managing an irate hiss.

“Otouto…”

There’s a long pause as he presses himself up over Tobirama, arms rippling when he hovers half-way. Sweat drips from the point of his nose and his hair clings in spidery tendrils along his shoulders and back. He looks like some kind of sex yōkai dragged straight out of Izuna’s dirtiest fantasies. And Tobirama plays the part of the boneless, satiated prey all too well.

That full-body flush really suits him.

“Otouto,” Madara repeats, voice so deep Izuna’s cock twitches with it, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Grinning, Izuna plants his feet on the linens and spreads his knees. “Not using my hands, just like you told me,” he chirps.

“I swear, if you already stretched yourself, I’m going to…” The threat hangs unfinished between them. Even hormone addled and brain half in his slit, Madara would never actually follow-up on it anyways. A century of affection both brotherly and more speaks to that truth.

“Going to what?” Izuna sing-songs, making a show of easing his slit apart with two fingers and pulling his cock back out until only the tip remains buried between his lips. He’s so wet. Arousal makes him feel tight, like he’s both overfilled and clenching around emptiness at the same time. “Don’t worry about what I’m doing over here and get back to work. Maybe try to put your back into it this time?” 

Madara’s eyes narrow even as he returns his attention to Tobirama. He leans in to put another patina of pink on already swollen lips, then rolls his hips back in a slow, stuttering glide. His cock slips free to sway long and thick between his legs, leaving wet trails glistening across the contour feathers of his inner thighs. 

Gorgeous. 

But that was only one egg. Madara hasn’t come yet, and he won’t until both precious yolks are properly incubating. So why are they stopping?

Tobirama groans and lets his legs slip back down to the linens with a boneless slap. “If that was considered a lackluster performance, I fear to think how many days you’ll be without the ability to walk unassisted,” he yips at Izuna between breathy huffs of laughter. “I suppose I’ll take this time to prepare your eulogy.” 

“Make sure you do it quick,” Madara grunts.

“Oh, I already have it mostly composed,” Tobirama quips, all lazy humor with the distinct flavor of satiation. “‘Here on this pyre lies our beloved mate, Uchiha Izuna, struck down, not by hubris, but by the follies of his own dowsing rod cock.’” 

Madara’s laugh is an explosive bark, nearly indistinguishable from that of a kitsune.

“Accurate,” he says. Approval emanates from both his words and the stretch of a cresting smile. 

“My powers of observation are exemplary,” Tobirama teases.

He reaches up to stroke Madara’s bangs back into some semblance of order—so careful with his claws. Everything about him is lovely, tender, and sweet in his afterglow, like all of those sharp edges have been filed down by unequivocal acceptance.

“And on the topic of observational awareness—” he begins, allowing his statement to hang unfinished.

Chakric pressure gathers around his fingertips and they begin to glow that same verdant green that had hurried their eggs along in the first place. Only this time that energy gives Madara’s arms strength enough to push up all the way without trembling. His eyes glint with renewed vigor and the steel of his spine returns. 

“I’ll thank you properly after I get this last egg out,” he says inexplicably. 

“I’m certain the show will be reward enough,” Tobirama replies, also sans explanation. “Though, do try not to destroy his coherency completely. There’s already so little remaining this evening.”

Snorting in amusement, Madara eases back onto his knees, the very picture of tengu power and virility. “No promises,” he twitters. His wings rise into a wide-spread mating posture, but not with the intent to coax Tobirama into another round.

Those pinions angle to spread solely for Izuna.

Confused, he cheeps a question only Madara can interpret, but there’s no answer forthcoming, only the tight set his Nii-san’s jaw takes when he’s particularly intent on something. It’s like there’s been an entire conversation Izuna hasn’t been privy to. Which is possible considering how out of it he’s been while blinded by the afterimages of wonder and incredulity. 

In the span of three days’ time, every single prayer he’s ever sent up in the halo of a paper lantern has been granted. The mantle of leadership has alighted onto shoulders longer lived and more suited to its restrictive weight. Another mate is here to warm Madara’s side—one so well matched their souls resonate like they all share the same roots. And not only that, by some divine miracle they’re going to have chicks.

An entire world has unfolded before them, so different than the future Izuna had resolved to make the best of. He thinks he’s entitled to a night or two of wandering thoughts. Maybe a fortnight just to be safe. But, for all that his brother likes to pretend otherwise, Madara has a fleeting relationship with patience and Izuna is lucky to have been given even twenty minutes to process how their lives have changed .

“I hope you’re ready to eat your words, Koibito,” Madara warns as he prowls across the bedding on hands and knees. His wings block the lantern light, creating a backlit effect that makes him appear as more than a tengu, greater than a daitengu. In that moment, he’s Indra’s right hand and the vessel of Izuna’s deliverance.

Muscular thighs bend the light and the sheen of the sheets is enough to cast his stomach and chest in a wash of orange that offsets his wing shadow.

Izuna swallows heavily. It’s like watching art in motion.

“Um, no? Not yet,” he cheeps, because maybe that imperative to mate is messing with Madara’s head more than he thought. There’s another egg to take care of first. Tobirama is the pole star in tonight’s sky and for some reason Madara is navigating in the exact opposite direction. “You’re going the wrong way. Tobirama’s behind you.”

A fire-hot hand clamps around Izuna’s ankle and yanks him forward without warning. His back hits the nest hard enough to surprise a strangled squawk out of him. Sweeping over with all the inevitability of a lava flow, Madara quells whatever denial he was rallying towards by the sheer, overwhelming power of his presence.

Everyday Izuna is reminded of how fortunate he is to love and be loved by his brother. It doesn’t take more than a single smoldering look—half want, half need, and all adoration—to take his breath away. 

“I’m well aware of where Tobirama is,” Madara says with a slight uptick at the corner of his mouth, “but he already has his egg. Now it’s your turn.”

“What do you mean ‘my turn’?” Izuna warbles right back. Wariness makes him want to pull away but trust keeps him still.

“I mean it’s your turn,” Madara repeats, voice dry and unimpressed. The sheets stretch taut under his knees as he expertly gathers Izuna’s tail feathers out of the way and maneuvers him onto his side. 

Wide eyed and a little lost, Izuna allows himself to be handled like one of his Nii-san’s prized pillows—silent and pliant under his direction. His knee smacks against Madara’s sternum as his brother straddles the opposite leg and finds a seat on his thigh. This position is one of their favorites. The pure lands are never so close as they are when Izuna is filled to his breaking point while gifting Madara the same. 

Like this—with the flex of a thick chest along his thigh and his hips held safely in the cradle of Madara’s own—they always shatter together. 

He just doesn’t understand why this is happening when there’s another egg to be cossetted by the warmth of Tobirama’s womb. Unencumbered by such worries, Izuna’s cock head slips free in search of better prospects, sliding up and around Madara’s shaft of its own volition.

They both shudder.

“Sure,” Izuna agrees breathily, “but my turn for what?” Other than the obvious.

Madara lowers his head and kisses Izuna’s knee so reverently his stomach flips at the sight. Such affection, such fondness, such care. All of the things that have always bound their heart strings shine stronger still in this one moment of connection.

When Madara looks to him from beneath full lashes, Izuna thinks he might be trapped in the most convincing genjutsu of his life.

“Your turn to take our egg.” 

And suddenly, the sky falls out from beneath him. Pressure gathers in his chest, making each heart-beat a hard-won success. Funny how easily the flame of lust can be banked by six little words.

“Don’t joke like that,” he forces past the tightness in his throat. Madara has never once been cruel. Ornery and bull-headed on occasion, but never malicious. They’ve been caught in each other’s gravity for so long that the only words between them are professions of love that have been caught and amplified in the echo-chamber of their joint soul. He wouldn’t— 

The nest shifts near his head, but Izuna only has eyes for his light, his love, his Nii-san. “Please, don’t,” he whispers. It sounds like breaking. Feels like it, too.

“‘Zuna,” Madara says, frowning at the instant success of that one clarion call. Telegraphing his movements, he adds another layer of kisses to the sensitive skin between Izuna’s knee plates before moving his leg aside completely. The motion reminds them both of their intertwined cocks, though it’s a distant sensation.

“You know I would never lie to you,” he gasps, intent on ignoring the pleasure in favor of sinking down to bury his face in the crook of Izuna’s neck.

There’s safety in the weight of his embrace.

“Especially not about something like this,” Madara continues. He nuzzles past the thin layer of kosode to sear kisses there too.

Again the nest shifts and this time Izuna can’t ignore the white-capped vision hovering over him, lithe arms sloping up to bracket the image of a beloved—if upside down—face. 

Tobirama’s ears swivel to the side as he sighs. “I suspected you were less than present during our discussion this evening.”

Izuna cradles the back of Madara’s head and pushes him as close as they can possibly get while still remaining in two bodies. They’ve talked a lot over the past couple of days. He would have remembered something so earth-shattering as…well…having not only his dreams come true, but his most far-fetched wishes too. He blinks to clear the encroaching white spots from his vision, only to realize it’s Tobirama descending to kiss his forehead, each eyelid, the tip of his nose, then further. The nomadic affections stop at his lips where heat and breath comingle to feed life back into him.

“Hmm?” he hums before falling quiet. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to rely on words to communicate with Tobirama anymore either.

“Which discussion? The one wherein you eagerly nodded your approval of bolstering our eggshells with chakra to withstand our heat. The womb I have assumed is a mirror of your own down to a cellular level and the fire within me burns just as bright,” Tobirama rehashes in brief. His fingers pry a home for themselves between Izuna’s knuckles where they’ve gone white around handfuls of hair. “My soul stone connects us,” he continues. “Through it, I will continue to feed the chakra our eggs need to grow healthy and hale.”

Inhaling long and slow, Madara turns his head to nose at the thin spread of feathers just below Izuna’s ear. “In short, Tobirama—”

It doesn’t need to be explained anymore. By Indra’s grace, the inadequacies that have dogged their steps through the years have been ameliorated. Izuna isn’t the failure he had once marked himself to be. 

“Tobirama fixed us,” he concludes.

However, Madara intervenes before the implication can gain traction.

“Our love isn’t that fragile, Otouto. We were never broken to begin with,” he pronounces, pushing up to punctuate his words with the truth of his sharingan.

“Agreed. The three of us were partial images of a whole greater than our sum alone. Whatever trials and tribulations we faced individually do not mold the shape of our worth,” Tobirama adds.

“So now we can—” Too caught up in revelation, Izuna doesn’t elaborate on what ‘they can’, but there’s little need for words at this point. The hoshi no tama pulses with a beat that gains in strength as three hearts take it up in sequence.

Madara leans forward onto his fists, first to accept his own gentle nuzzle from Tobirama, then to meet Izuna’s gaze with unabashed sincerity. “Will you do me the honor of carrying our egg, Otouto?” he asks. No question has ever been aired with so much raw hope. There’s a slight tremble in the divots to either side of Izuna’s head where Madara braces himself in the sheets.

“But what if it doesn’t work?” Izuna replies in a whisper. Really, though, he needn’t have asked; Tobirama’s baritone is quick to clear the air of even the possibility of failure.

“Do you have so little faith in me?”

And isn’t it funny how three simple questions can suggest the shape of an answer in and of themselves. They’ll be fine. With Madara’s fortitude, Tobirama’s power, and Izuna’s undying devotion, they’ll see this family through any gale that may come. It’s a heady thought, and one that’s a single word away from becoming a reality.

Izuna shakes his head in response to Tobirama and looks up to the mate they share. “Okay,” he cheeps, fighting the urge to blink just in case he misses anything. In that way, he can be sure that no millimeter of Madara’s budding smile goes uncatalogued.

“Just okay?” Madara prods.

Oh no, they both know it’s far more than ‘okay’. No past or future event can possibly surmount this one shining moment of triumph. 

“Yeah. If I say what I’m really thinking right now I’m going to bawl and you know how blotchy and unsexy I get.”

“Don’t forget, I’ve seen you as a fledgling. If that didn’t turn me away, nothing could,” Madara points out.

It takes a second for the barb to stick. When it does, Izuna throws his head back against Tobirama’s knees and laughs—a raucous, full throated song worthy of a crow. “You asshole,” he wheezes between guffaws, because if they’re back to teasing each other, that means everything is alright again. Better, even. It’s nice to laugh away the nervous energy.

Madara is going to give him an egg. 

Without even knowing it was there, the mounting tension bleeds away. Tobirama’s hands turn soft on Izuna’s shoulders as he peels off the last layer of kosode. And Madara—his glorious Nii-san—is nothing short of the sunrise, bright, warm, and the giver of all things. He settles back to straddle Izuna’s thigh and realign their sexes.

They’ve both retracted, but if there is one unwavering constant in the world, it’s the attraction Izuna feels towards this ridiculous tengu. The embers of arousal begin to glow once more even as he shudders with laughter and relief in equal measure. 

Madara presses his cheek against Izuna’s knee and watches his face as they fit into place—heat to heat. “I love you, Otouto.”

Smooth, uncalloused palms stroke the corners of his eyes. “And I,” Tobirama confesses, brow furrowed but still smiling as if the epiphany is something that he hadn’t expected to voice so soon. 

It’s too much. Awestruck and wanting, Izuna rolls his hips as the last remnant of laughter fades. “Same,” he replies without hesitation, “both of you. So much.” 

The pattern Madara strokes through the feathers along his thigh reignites the fast track connection between his heart and his slit. Maybe it’s a little bit quicker than usual now that his trepidation has dissolved into low-grade giddiness. Hell, he’s trembling with it. But Tobirama is there to unbind his hair and ease away that frenetic energy, and Madara knows better than to give him time to overthink things.

Izuna responds to his brother’s shifting hips in kind and warbles at the wetness he can feel there.

Need curls low in his stomach, a wave of heat and pressure made even more potent by anticipation of greater things. Again he can’t help but to clench around the empty ache. Then Madara’s talon tips meander lower, over the sensitive divot where leg meets groin, and onward to tease at the slickness where they rut and slide against each other.

It’s not often that they’re too far gone to forgo quiet reaffirmations of each other’s bodies with hands and mouths, but this time—

Izuna arches in a vain attempt to keep his cock in check. His wings flutter against the sheets.

—this time he needs it all. He wants so badly what comes after the pleasure. 

“I don’t think I can wait,” he twitters, clutching at the linens. His cockhead is already trying to wrest away control and slip into the body it knows so well.

Madara nods, pink cheeked and with eyes half-lidded. He twitches closer, so close there’s literally nowhere to unsheathe but into him. “Then don’t.”

His command rings out like liberation.

Izuna scrabbles at the sheets and finds a better handhold on Tobirama’s wrists as he lets go. The sudden release of pressure slams him into such tight heat that he’s sure he’s metamorphosing in a volcano’s heart. Toe-curling pleasure makes him tense, mouth hanging wide even as every other muscle locks tight.

Madara hugs his thigh and keens high enough to touch the rafters. 

“Fuck,” Izuna whines as soon as he remembers how to breathe. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

All he can feel is Madara around him and slipping into him with a great deal more care than he had managed. All he can see is the pale stretch of Tobirama’s thighs spread to either side of his head, close enough to kiss. So he does. Sloppy, uncoordinated, and filled with the same passion that Madara continues to feed into his slit.

“Desperation is a good look on you,” Tobirama rumbles, voice dropping an octave and delving into something delicious. “Though I haven’t found any passion that isn’t toothsome in your company.”

Madara laughs, an airy sound that has his stomach tensing and his cock twitching so deep Izuna can feel it in his ribs. “He’s always beautiful,” he declares, exhaling heavily between words, “even when he says he isn’t.” 

Izuna gives up his death-grip on Tobirama’s wrists to hide his face in the safety of his palms instead. They’re not allowed to say those things. How has he been so fortunate to deserve either of them?

With his hands over his face, he doesn’t see the way his brother spreads his knees wider and shifts his stance, but he can certainly tell how eager Madara is in the needy, straight-forward angle.

He’s not holding back. His thrusts start out slow and careful, but quickly grow less controlled. Each lash of his cock zeroes in on all of the over-sensitized places that he knows will keep Izuna on the brink of orgasm. The only reason they don’t slide up the nest with the force of each wet slap is the solid presence of their third.

Tobirama braces Izuna’s shoulders and pries his hands away to trace swollen lips in contemplation.

This close, Izuna only has to turn his head to see the pink tip of a vulpine cock and the sheen of spend. He’s sampled a lot of yōkai in his mad quest to find one who would and could serve as surrogate in his stead. Tobirama’s sex certainly isn’t the oddest he’s entertained, but it’s unique in its rigidity and Izuna can’t help but to picture Madara or himself skewering themselves like mochi on a dango stick. Indra willing, they’ll have centuries to take their fill. The thought has his slit clenching.

As if sensing Izuna’s return to coherency, Madara puts his back into shattering it once again. Powerful thighs flex to lift his weight, then both gravity and impatience drive him past the bounds of rationality to screw Izuna hip-deep into the bedding. 

Izuna cries out. For a moment, his soul seems to leave his body, or maybe that’s the first riptide current of orgasm taking hold. Firm hands—two, four, he doesn’t know any more—press his thigh into his chest for him to hold. He’s ridiculously flexible. It’s not even a strain. The only thing that hurts is trying to string two thoughts together.

“Is he ready?” someone asks as if from a great distance.

The answer is obviously a resounding ‘yes’. Yes, please, and thank you. But since words falter under the strain of his overstretched slit, actions will have to suffice. By some miracle, Izuna manages to catch one of his Nii-san’s hands and guide it back to the base of his tail-feathers. The intent is obvious and Madara wastes no time in massaging the oil gland there to take his scent.

Sex and belonging, mates and home. Their nest will be filled and their love indomitable.

The pressure increases and Izuna can feel the beginnings of their egg moving closer. He helps it along as best he can with his cock from within. It doesn’t take much. 

When orgasm finally crests, it’s a rising swell that seems to stretch out to the horizon. His muscles lock. His lungs burn. Possibility creeps up on him in increments tied directly to the progress of their egg in his channel. It’s a fullness he’s known before, but this time their egg isn’t a gamble. This time he’ll carry their chick. With Tobirama. Together.

One last push and their future settles in his womb sweet as belonging.

In return, he gives Madara all of himself. A cry of completion, a flood of come, and every ounce of his heart. 


	34. Tobirama's POV- Rated E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the porn, much more conventional, skip if you don't want to see it.

This is something he’ll be allowed to have every day, Tobirama realizes.

He’s felt the stirrings of arousal before—the same as any other animal—but he’s never had any interest in mating games, much less broaching intimacy. Now he wonders how he’ll ever be able to stop.

Izuna paints such a lovely spread with his wings limp and outstretched against the nest, legs equally as boneless where Madara remains buried between them. How beautiful they are in their pleasure. Even huffing like a bellows to regain his wind, Madara is a testament to the power of their shared lineage—kitsune and tengu, two warring factions made whole.

It’s obvious that Butsuma and Tajima were intended to be Inari’s means to an age of peace. Instead, Tobirama and his mates will serve as that gateway, forcing the world to bend under the evidence of their bond. There’s a comfortable weight in his belly to further testify to his pledge. 

He wonders what their children will look like as he strokes Izuna’s bangs back from his damp brow. Perhaps they’ll have his mate’s fine features and bold coloration. Or his own. Either way, they will be perfect because they will have been sprouted from new beginnings to be nurtured by joy. By love. By  _ commitment _ . 

Tobirama will not perpetuate the mistakes of their fathers.

He cards his fingers through the thick fall of Izuna’s hair and directs it to flow up and over his folded thigh. The rush of air against Izuna’s neck and shoulders surprises a jolt out of him, but it’s a muted reaction—instinct tempered by satiation. Slender and pale, his mate’s neck would take the shape of his teeth well.

The wind of a plaintive whistle against his knee is sweet—so sweet Tobirama can’t resist pinching Izuna’s nose closed just to feel his breath blow harsh and warm as well. An intimate zephyr collects between his thighs for far too short a time. It’s selfish and likely too soon, but he wishes they could all mate again.

Groaning with the effort, Izuna tries to push up onto one elbow and shake him off only to collapse back to the bedding. Those fine features scrunch then release as if even faking a frown is too much effort. “Tobi,” he whines, then seems to think better of it. “Nii-san,” he complains instead, finally convincing Madara to open his eyes, “Tobirama’s being mean to me and you haven’t come yet.”

So caught up in the renewed throbbing of his own cock, Tobirama hadn’t realized. He gives up the game, immediately contrite in the face of Madara’s delayed satisfaction. 

“Tobirama’s just fine. Worry about yourself and whether or not you can take more,” Madara intones in a voice like a mating call. Lamplight pours over his shoulders to spill into the definition of his chest and stomach. Every slow flap of his wings brings with it the suggestion of more—more strength, more power, more pleasure to be had.

Tobirama finds his hunger echoed in Izuna’s answering birdsong.

“No problem. Think you can keep up?” Izuna teases, laughing quiet and lazy. He can barely move with how thoroughly he’s been taken apart. 

Madara grins and there’s such an outpouring of affection that it’s surprising there’s any left to share. Then he looks up to Tobirama and that love springs eternal for him as well.

“For you two? A squadron of harpies couldn’t hold me back.”

Incredible.

Too preoccupied with having his heart made whole, Tobirama doesn’t remark on Izuna’s squirming right up until an intrepid tongue finds the tip of his erection where it bows under its own weight. He barely manages to strangle a yip. The unexpected jolt of want has him twitching and smearing remnants of spend across Izuna’s lips, his cheek.

“Izuna, what are you—” he breathes out, staring down in wonder.

Red eyes and a sly smirk herald another exploratory lick over the swell of his glans and further up his shaft. “What, did you think I couldn’t handle you both at the same time? I’m good at multitasking,” he croons, punctuating his intent with a close-lipped kiss that should be chaste, but is nothing less than provocative when bestowed to the side of his cock. “This is another first, right?”

It absolutely is. His stunned silence serves as answer enough. 

“ _ Good _ .”

The humans used to speak to each other of using their mouths like this. And there was one occasion where he came upon Hashirama performing this same service for Mito in the woods, but it seemed so outlandish. Now, he thinks he’s starting to understand a little more. Every second spent in their company is rife with this magnetic pull—this drive to be as close as possible. Buried hip-deep in any orifice possible if that’s what it takes to share one body.

“Mmm, don’t worry, he’ll take care of you. ‘Zuna has an incredible mouth,” Madara hums, redirecting his attention.

Tobirama swallows heavily. “I can see the potential.” Full lips, dimples at the corners, and cheeks pink with arousal. Izuna is far too beautiful to refuse even if he wanted to. Following the arch of a strong cheekbone, Tobirama smooths down the feathers at his temple and revels in the glossiness against his fingers. There’s trust in the flutter of his eyes, need in the unintentional O of his mouth as Madara eases back and slips free. That long, pink cock stretches out to seek Izuna’s slit again even from a distance.

It’s a sentiment Tobirama can relate to.

“And fucking his face comes with the added benefit of shutting him up for as long as you can last,” Madara continues, delivering a playful tug to the feathers trailing from Izuna’s abdominals down towards his sex. 

“Hey!”

Preoccupied with teasing every ounce of blood in Tobirama’s body down into his cock, Izuna’s protest is weak and anything but immediate. The breathy laugh is hardly convincing either. He bats at his brother’s hands, but turns in place under his direction anyways. It’s slow, laborious going to lie on his stomach.

“I’ll have you know,” Izuna grunts as he shuffles onto his elbows, “I have the song,” another pause to get his knees under him and arch with upraised tail feathers, “of a  _ siren _ .”

And the body, the grace, and the inextricable pull of one as well. Tobirama shudders as Izuna nuzzles his inner thigh with intent. 

“Shh, you know I love your voice, Otouto,” Madara admits easily. The nest shifts along with his weight as he reaches over to snag a pillow. “I love our conversations.” He folds the crimson pillow in half, somehow making it appear all the more plush, and slides it beneath Izuna’s upraised hips. “I love listening to you chirp in your sleep,” he murmurs, sealing his words with a kiss to each of the dimples in Izuna’s back as he encourages him to relax down. “And I even love when you’re spouting bullshit at anyone and anything within ear-shot.”

That earns another laugh. One that has Tobirama instinctively rocking his hips towards the puff of warm breath.

“I want you to make Tobirama love it too.” He looks up, an apex predator for all that he seems intent on devouring Tobirama’s reason. “Show him what you sound like with your throat in the shape of his cock,” he says, voice dropping an impossible octave.

How fitting, then, that Tobirama’s whine sounds like ascension in contrast.

And just that easy, Izuna melts against the pillow and allows his back to arch to devastating effect. His wings stretch out, half-unfurled to either side, and bracket the long, pale stretch of his body. With the spill of his unbound hair cascading down his shoulders, it’s as if he’s bathing in a pool of ink. Behind him, Madara guides his tail feathers to the side. They shudder against the thickness of his waist as he aligns himself and pushes back in, curling his hips forward slowly. He spreads his knees wide and slams his fists into the nest to prop himself up. The position affords Tobirama a clear view all the way from his handsome face—appearing younger and more carefree in the throes of pleasure—all the way down to where his hips grind and flatten Izuna’s buttocks as he hilts himself.

When he glances back up, Tobirama finds himself wandering in red eyes without the need for genjutsu. Then, Madara surges forward and he’s well and truly lost.

They all groan together. 

Inari can use him time and time again if this is to be his reward, Tobirama thinks. Izuna’s lips are the path to the pure lands and his mouth…his  _ tongue _ . It’s not the same bliss as their slits, but it’s so close that the first swallow has him tossing his head back and baring his teeth at the ceiling.

Divine.

The wet, sucking heat recedes as Madara shifts back only to return on the next thrust. He’s close enough to kiss, so Tobirama does. He uncurls his claws from the nest in favor of anchoring Izuna’s head with fistfuls of hair. Leaning forward only presses him deeper into a throat that was made for him, and Madara rewards his enthusiasm by arching up to close the distance.

Overwhelmed, Tobirama quickly forgets his prior lessons and kisses with the intent to devour. It’s sloppy, instinctual, and a far cry from finesse, but Madara moans into it all the same.

They hit a rhythm thanks to Izuna’s efforts and the world shudders. It’s everything Tobirama didn’t realize he needed. Connection and joy in the body of another. Chakra flows through the circuit they make in a never-ending wave that ramps up without ever cresting. There’s so much possibility here, so much passion.

Gasping, Madara rears back, eyes wide at first, then slamming shut. He grimaces and hisses through clenched teeth as he ruts harder, faster. His orgasm is a beautiful, broken thing. All of that smooth grace devolves into stuttering hips and a soul-deep cry that builds in his stomach and reverberates through his chest.

There’s no true language in his roar, only the scattered syllables of Tobirama and Izuna’s names.

Tobirama finds his own release rapidly approaching at the sight. Except that Izuna’s hand wraps firmly under the growing swell of his knot and staves off the rising tide just long enough to come back to himself. At least one of them has sense, he thinks, too far gone to lament his near misstep.

As Madara stills, Izuna pulls away, tracing the rounded flare of Tobirama’s glans with his tongue one last time before leaving him to bob freely in the air.

“Fuck,” he rasps, “I know you can’t knot my mouth, but I kind of want to try.” Spittle glints at the corners of lips made dark by friction as he smiles.

Such a gorgeous creature.

“Please,” Tobirama replies immediately, surprised to note his own voice edging towards hoarseness without even taking a cock. He doesn’t quite know what he’s begging for, only knows that he needs them both so badly. His tails lash behind him and his ears swivel to lie flat. “Don’t stop.”

“Shhh,” Madara hushes him with what little energy is left to him, “we’re not stopping. But don’t you think our mate deserves a turn being tied?”

Tied? At the bare minimum. What Tobirama wants is to claim them both in every possible way all at once. It’s a ridiculous thought and impossible to accomplish, but he doesn’t know what else to do with this frenetic energy. Attraction and lust are secondary to the overwhelming need he feels having them so close.

“I think I might die of old age before we get that far,” he quips, trying to hide his desperation and failing miserably.

Madara and Izuna share an over the shoulder glance. A whole conversation is had in the flicker of wings and they begin to move in tandem. Before Tobirama knows what’s happening, Izuna arches his wings high enough to scrape the rafters and Madara slides into the vacated space at his side. They turn to each other, chest to chest, legs tangled, wings outstretched, and looking like the definition of debauchery. 

Izuna reaches up to slap Tobirama’s knee. “Come on. It’s not fair you gave Nii-san your knot, but not me,” he wheedles, wriggling his hips in blatant display.

The room spins with how quickly Tobirama flings himself over to lie atop of one of Izuna’s wings and use the other to pull forward and plaster himself along that lithe back. He shakes as he lifts his mate’s tail feathers and surges forward. Instead of finding a home in paradise, Izuna’s clasped thighs take off some of the edge until they can get the angle right. Then…then heat suffuses every nerve in his body, hotter than hearth and home.

Yes. This is preferable—the easy slide and the depth that he needs to catch himself in his mate. As sweet as Izuna’s mouth was, this brings him even closer to completion. Wetness makes for a strange sensation between his legs where he’s still trying to acclimate to the ache of his newly-formed slit, but that’s a distant thing. He clamps onto Izuna’s hips and ruts like a thing possessed. The nest shifts under them as he forcibly works a divot in the futons with his thrusting.

Panting, he mouths the back of Izuna’s neck and tastes the salt there. Under it all, the unique acorn-scent of wing oil combines with the citrusy flavor of his mates’ arousal. It’s heady enough to grow drunk on it.

As his knot begins to swell, he finds that Izuna’s neck takes his teeth just as beautifully as he had imagined—pliant and giving under his incisors. Perfect, beloved, and his, his,  _ his _ .

He’s not going to last at all.

Madara caresses his clenched jaw, his shoulders, petting down further to stroke his tails and lend a bit of strength to his pistoning hips.

“Come for us, koibito,” he urges over Izuna’s sharp cries.

Funny how it’s the rumble of his baritone that finally undoes Tobirama.

He disengages his teeth and braces his forehead in the slickness of spittle and sweat, reaching for Madara’s waist to sandwich the three of them tight as he tumbles over the brink. He yelps on the first bright gush of come then devolves into fervent prayers in the force of the aftershocks. With his heartbeat in his cock, his knot expands to tie him in place. The remainder of his seed fills all of the places he couldn’t reach with his body alone. Another twitch, another spurt, and his soul burns brighter than it ever has.

“Wow,” Izuna whispers some time later.

Tobirama blinks slowly, as if waking from a fog. Their skin has cooled under the blanket of Madara’s wing and the lamps have burned down low. Every muscle in his body feels loose and that desperate need to mate has died down to something deeper, something more along the lines of belonging.

“Did I fall asleep?” he murmurs.

“I think we all did,” Madara answers with nothing but contentment. That same lethargy is evident in his soft explorations—a tender kiss for his brother, an equally indulgent massage around the base of Tobirama’s ears.

Izuna squirms, cheeping when Tobirama’s flaccid cock slips free. “Yeah. Probably should have cleaned up first. We’re gross,” he snorts. “Like, disgusting.”

It’s true. They’re tacky with sweat and come, and for all that Tobirama could bathe in their scent for a lifetime and never have enough, he doesn’t think their nest would weather it well. Sighing, he coalesces a thin skein of chakra in the static of his fur and summons the water from the air to sweep over their bodies. It threads through the linens too because he knows how much Madara values them.

He flicks it away into the catch basin across the room without bothering to move from his comfortable burrow. It’s like a den made of feathers and love and he’ll bite the hand of anyone who tries to take that from him.

“Oh. That’s—that’s really convenient,” Madara observes, yawning midway through.

Tobirama hums his agreement as he buries his face in Izuna’s hair. If his mates have anything else to say, he doesn’t hear it. Between one breath and the next, sleep begins to sweep him away on wings made of gossamer and light.

Before lucidity fails him completely, he thinks he feels fingers twining between his own…

…the sensation of three hearts beating as one. 


	35. Butsuma's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The CYOA folks finally voted for Butsuma's POV!! lololol

When the sun rises, so does Butsuma, but it’s to find Tajima notably absent from his side. There’s still a lingering warmth next to him in the sheets—the only thing that manages to tamp down the anxiety of the unknown. He had grown so used to sleeping under the stars while the kits found their own warmth in his den. It’s strange to be closeted like this without a reason. Stranger still to yearn for touch after having gone so long without. 

“He’ll be back,” Tajima’s retainer, Hikaku, says low so as not to startle. “It’s a morning ritual for him to harass his sons awake.” He clears his throat. “I suppose they’re yours as well, in theory.” 

There’s something familiar in his voice that doesn’t sit well. Resentment has a distinct tang, not soon forgotten.

Butsuma’s tails lie still only by habit. “You don’t trust me,” he concludes. Shifting sheets and the sleepy muttering of children are as good an excuse as any to keep his eyes trained down and away from the straight line of sight between them.

“I don’t know you,” Hikaku retorts without malice.

“No, you don’t,” Butsuma agrees.

Silence hangs for a time, stilted and more than a little awkward as they lie on their sides facing each other with only the space Tajima had taken up to serve as a buffer between them…empty now.

Feathers rustle as Hikaku pushes up onto one elbow. Without his harness he jingles less, but the set of his shoulders remains armored under his sleeping yukata all the same. He’s a strong, seemingly put-together tengu. Tajima could have done much worse.

He could have been alone.

Sighing, Butsuma reaches under the sheets to stroke the short fur along Itama’s muzzle where his head rests at an awkward angle on his thigh. “I’m not going to hurt them. At least not intentionally,” he confides as he traces a near invisible scar along his kit’s brow.

“Even if you did, it’s the last thing you’d do with your organs intact.” Hikaku says each word with deliberate care, as if testing them first. Gauging Butsuma’s reaction more than likely. It’s a bold threat, after all, but an unnecessary one.

Butsuma’s answer is aborted by a long, drawn out yawn from the warm mound molded around his pillow. He pats the closest body part without looking up—Kawarama’s paw—and marvels at the pang of longing he hasn’t felt since Mito first laid her seal. How has he never denned with his own adopted kits before tonight? Their little hearts pitter patter faster than a flash-step even in sleep and their rhythmic snuffles are a balm he never thought he needed.

No, he’ll not be abandoning his reason again. There’s far too much left to lose. Kawarama settles and Butsuma finally finds the strength to lift his chin and meet Hikaku’s gaze.

“You’re not strong enough to back that up,” he mutters, “but I won’t give you an excuse to try. You have my word on that.”

For some inexplicable reason, the tengu smiles. It’s only a slight uptick at one corner of his mouth, but there’s an unmistakable glimmer of amusement to it. “Oh, I’m not the issue here. Tajima’ll be the one shoving his talons so far up your ass Inari’s light shines right through.” 

Butsuma stares, wide-eyed at the audacity. His hands still in Itama and Kawarama’s coats for the time it takes to process being spoken to like an unruly whelp—quite a while if the dryness in his eyes is anything to go by. He blinks furiously and bites his lip to stifle a yip. His chest hitches, laugh lines crinkle for the first time in a century, and a pressure builds in his chest, not new, but more akin to the remnants of a dream.

Too weak without the seal in place, the first bark of laughter tears through him like the crack of an avalanche. After that, there’s no stopping the momentum. Such crude imagery couched in a professional tone… Hikaku has him curling around his stomach with a pain only elation can bring and wheezing with the effort of trying to keep quiet.

Oh, this feels good. The fact that he can feel anything at all is a miracle, much less this transcendent joy.

His kits jerk out of their stupor despite his best efforts, staggering upright on rubber legs. They run a wobbly circuit under the sheets before shoving their wet noses under his chin. 

Kawarama darts out of cover first and yaps in alarm before diving right back in. The fire-rat in him lends heat to his tongue as he creeps out to lap at Butsuma’s tears and groom his ears in brief bursts of bravery. Itama, bold, mercurial Itama, forgoes the protection of the sheets altogether to pounce on Butsuma’s rib cage every time a chuckle escapes. Before long, he tires of the game and whips around to bristle at Hikaku with down stuck to his lips and a purple pillowcase half slipping off of his head. 

“You broke Oyaji!” he yowls. 

Oh, sweet, precious kit.

For the first time in three days, Hikaku’s poise devolves into something a little more relatable—abject, whole-hearted confusion. 

“What? Your father’s just laughing,” a pause, “I think.”

“No he’s not!” Kawarama denies at the same time as Itama yells “Oyaji never laughs!”

Their reactions speak to a dark truth that Butsuma will never be able to properly atone for. Sobering hastily, he gathers their two wriggling bodies close to his chest as he rolls onto his back to embrace them for what might be the first time. Soft bellies squirm against his forearms and little bursts of kitsune fire dance along his fingers. A gentle kiss to the top of their heads finally calms them enough to still and look up at him, eyes wide and glassy.

Upside down like this, their shared wonder should be comical, but it’s not.

“I’m sorry, Kawa,” he rumbles, nuzzling his youngest. “And I apologize to you too, Itama. I didn’t mean to scare you. I should have been…” The words trail off. There are a lot of things he ‘should have been’—a father, a mate, a leader. Funny how he managed to fail at all three. “You’ll both be hearing a lot more laughter from now on. I’ll just try not to wake you up with it next time,” he assures them instead. Another vow he intends to keep.

“As long as Hikaku didn’t really break you, it’s okay,” Itama assuages as he manages to worm close enough to lick Butsuma’s chin where the red lines of Inari’s tearstains meet beneath it. The wisdom of children is a powerful thing. No, he’s not broken. He came close once, but there’s still hope for him stored in the hearts of little foxes…and one rather large force of nature.

“Thank you,” Butsuma grunts. ‘Thank you’ for their innocence, their kindness, and most of all, their resilience in the face of hardship—a hardship he was partly responsible for. 

“Yeah, it’s okay! Otherwise we would steal his leg band and hide it where he would never find it! Then he wouldn’t ever have any points again for being mean,” Kawarama announces in a rare show of pique.

Incredible the loyalty a single embrace can foster. Butsuma inhales long and slow, and holds his kits until their scents comingle as they should have from the first day he plucked them from the forest. Stuck half-way in his transition between kodama seed and nogitsune, Itama would have had an easier time of sprouting if the pain had been offset by love, not just an infusion of zenko blood and magics. Maybe he would be kinder. Less prone to the deceits of his darker half. 

He’s young, yet. There’s still time.

Small depressions in the nest shift the sheets under Butsuma just enough to prepare him for the addition of another small body. The stowaway tengu chick collapses across his stomach, muttering something about them being too loud.

“Kagami,” Hikaku warns.

Yes. That’s right. Kagami is his name.

“He’s fine,” Butsuma assures Hikaku, closing his eyes and relaxing into the bedding to appear smaller—less of a threat. It takes a great deal of trust to allow younglings this close to a stranger. Maybe Tajima’s retainer was being truthful when he claimed his unease was from a lack of familiarity. “I won’t hurt them,” he reiterates just in case.

His word seems to hold weight. Hikaku’s wings rise and fall to cast their shadow over the nest, but he otherwise keeps his peace. Mild discomfort in the language of wings is of little concern.

Kagami takes their brief conversation as allowance to shove his head up under Butsuma’s wrist and bully his way between Itama and Kawarama to find the warmest spot. His stubby wings fluff at a job well done and flap madly to get him situated just right. A short burst of birdsong, familiar in the way pieces of long-ago memories tend to linger, is muffled in the press of bodies. Summoned, the tengu chick’s little sprout leaps its way over Hikaku’s knees to join the huddle.

Pinions of every pattern and breed grace its wings, glittering in the diffuse morning light. A strange tercet of kodama, tengu, and zenko influence, this one will mature into a fine seedling given time. It already has the height and outward features of a chick with the knowing, deep-set eyes of the forest. Its maturation is occurring far quicker than the kits’ ever did.

It doesn’t hesitate to scale Butsuma’s hip—silent as the young sprouts usually are— and perch cross-legged on his stomach.

Such a strange feeling to be blanketed in warmth. He only wishes renewing ties with Tobirama would be this easy, if it’s even possible at all. A simple hug to wipe away a hundred years of neglect.

It’s worth trying. However, the near silent roll of casters has Butsuma tensing under more immediate concerns. 

“Oh my, has my mate absconded in my absence? All I see is an ungainly pile of children in his place,” a strong voice announces. Backlit by streaming sunlight, Tajima appears in the doorway to the aerie as if by Inari’s own hand.

“I suppose they’ll serve as fine enough bedding, if a touch softer than I prefer,” he bemoans, talons clacking as he skirts Kagami’s discarded outer garments and makes his way across the room.

There’s an aura of grace to him that has never failed to take Butsuma’s breath away, even when the bond was sealed. Six centuries of experience and he has never felt so alive as in those few precious days spent holding and being held by this one exceptional tengu. He remembers the artful drape of Tajima’s kimono unfurling from his thighs like the last petals of a sakura blossom, the sensitivity of his scars. They had fucked, yes, but they had also made love in the heart of this sacred mountain—a memory he will be able to cherish once again now that the pain has eased its stranglehold.

This time they’ll take things slow.

This time they’ll bond like two adult yōkai with a dram of sense.

Tajima spreads his wings halfway in a lazy display of greeting, hopping over the rim of the nest. The crimson tips of his feathers seem to glow with the hallmarks of his joy, only outshone by the honesty of his smile.

“I do so hope this new futon is strong enough to hold me. I’ll have to test it thoroughly to find out,” he sing songs.

He swoops down between Butsuma’s knees with unparalleled elegance and kneels amongst his tails. Butsuma can’t make them still with his mate close enough to keep and his kits squirming and kicking their little hindquarters in a fake bid to escape. His soul-tail in particular wags a metronomic beat for the rising chorus of yips and chirps against his chest.

Bracing himself with his fists next to Butsuma’s shoulders—a hairsbreadth away from the marks of their first touch—Tajima lowers himself slow and easy.

Butsuma watches the descent with rapt attention, ears pricked forward and chest clenching. The added weight is barely noticeable. It’s obvious that Tajima is being gentle in his teasing for all that he pretends mercilessness. His character is a marriage of two distinct faces with only subtle clues as to which one is the mask. Both are dangerous in their appeal.

“He’s going to crush us like Hashirama does!” Kawarama yelps, rucking up Tajima’s yukata as he scrabbles to get away. It would be easy for him to slip out of Butsuma’s lax embrace, but somehow all of that fidgeting keeps him exactly where he claims he doesn’t want to be.

How incredible to see his kits  _ playing _ , Butsuma thinks. They’ve always been so solemn in his company. There had seemed to be a tentativeness about them that is gone now, jubilation coaxed out by the promise of Tajima’s teasing. Maybe it has something to do with his own sudden emotional availability, too, but the pain of that acknowledgment is not one he can come to terms with just yet. Instead he focuses on the excitement they show in having gained another father figure in their lives.

“That’s right, brats, prepare to be smothered or worse!” Tajima crows as he nips first at the tip of Itama’s ear, then viciously nuzzles Kagami’s curls to the chick’s great delight.

There’s a subtle wisp of forest magic and the kodama seedling vanishes from being crushed between their stomachs to reappear seated on Hikaku’s knee. It cocks its head in a very tengu-like manner while observing from a safe distance this time. The imprint must be strong for it to willingly step away from Kagami so soon after sprouting. Either that or it can sense the ‘horrors’ to come.

“Worse?” Itama whines.

Tajima lets the younglings take a bit more of his weight—nothing excessive or discomforting—and grins with more teeth than an oni. “Oh, exponentially worse. Though I am blind and unable to see what you boys are hiding beneath you, I can tell there is something. Someone, perhaps? And if a single pinion of mine were to brush against this hidden mystery to find my dear Sweetling,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “well, then I simply wouldn’t be able to contain my joy at the discovery. There might be hugging or dare I say it…kissing!” he elaborates, dropping his voice ominously.

Butsuma swallows with great effort.

“Gross!” Kawarama announces, lashing his tail to keep from slipping off of Butsuma’s chest.

“It’s not gross!” Kagami cheeps in immediate protest. It takes an awful lot of chirping and flapping for him to fold his wings and roll in place. “Chichi and Haha always kiss me right here,” he insists, pointing to his forehead, “because they love me. And so does Tajima-sama, and Hikaku, and Madara, and Izuna, too.”

Tengu are so open with their affections. It’s no surprise this chick’s sense of belonging is well tended to. His certitude is a revelation for yōkai not born to it. Well, a revelation for those housed beneath the belly of a fox with no sense, at least.

Biting Kagami’s curls, Itama grunts and tugs without malice. “I think you’re lying,” he announces through his teeth. “Oyaji doesn’t kiss us and neither does Tobirama. Hashi only does it because he’s weird.”

Butsuma’s first kit isn’t strange. He was sprouted from one of Kukunochi’s seeds the same as these two—progeny of the god-tree blessed with a root network all their own. The only difference is Hashirama was nurtured with mindfulness and care. Now that he’s able, Butsuma will work to make sure Itama and Kawarama grow tall enough to cultivate not only their own fleet of kodama, but their own version of ‘weirdness’ as well. They’ll learn that paternal instinct is not an eccentricity. 

As a first step towards that lesson, Tajima tweaks Itama’s two-toned nose and strokes the fur down flat between his eyes. There, he plants a sweet, chaste press of lips. “Shows of affection are the most powerful of truths, youngling. Your father and I will continue to instruct you in their many different nuances.” He looks to Butsuma, but there’s no judgment there, only promise.

The base of Butsuma’s tails throbs. Regret. Hope. Both concepts comingle into resolve under Tajima’s white gaze. It feels nice to have a goal; it’s nice to feel at all.

“You use too many big words, just like Tobirama,” Itama deflects, his voice drowned out by a sharp bark as Kawarama squirms against the press of bodies to get close enough for a kiss of his own.

Laughing, Tajima grants him one right on top of his muzzle. “I’m the progenitor of all big words, I’ll have you know,” he attests. “They belonged to me first, though I’ve been gracious enough to share.”

“Wait, really?”

“Anything is possible if you say it with enough confidence,” Butsuma quips, one eyebrow raised.

Nearly forgotten, Hikaku makes his presence known with an unflattering caw. Tajima jolts so subtly that Butsuma only knows because his tails have threaded around his mate’s thighs of their own accord.

“The illustrious Uchiha Tajima has built his entire life around that concept,” Hikaku scoffs, scooping the seedling up from his knee and setting it down on the nest. If he were a fox, the tiercel’s ears would be low and swiveled to the side. His longsuffering is never far from the surface when Tajima is around. Maybe it’s not actual annoyance, though, Butsuma thinks. Who knows? He’s no expert in yōkai behavior outside of war games, but there’s definitely fondness in the flutter of his wings.

Tajima shakes his head, bangs spilling over his ears to tickle little noses. “And what position of office do you hold to speak to your elders this way?”

“You made me clan head,” Hikaku reminds him dryly.

“Ah. There is that.”

Embarrassment suits Tajima’s features. Scrunched eyebrows, lips pressed thin, and a rosy complexion made obvious on skin much paler than Butsuma’s own. He wants to cradle Tajima’s cheeks and absorb some of that heat into his palms. Instead, he pushes up to his elbows, curling against the weight of three younglings and his other half.

As if by unspoken agreement, they all begin moving at once. Sunbeams catch the dustmotes set loose by their shifting. Kawarama lights up under the first burst of sun on his face and summons fire sprites to cavort down his spine and give his tail the volume of a flaming bottlebrush. The fire-rat portion of his lineage has always been strongest in the mornings. Delighted by the flickering, Kagami uses the advantage of his feather down to slip free and tumble after him to investigate.

Without their bodies serving as a buffer, only Itama stands guard over Butsuma’s reason. 

Then, his last hope snaps at Tajima’s bangs while kicking like a rabbit and twisting away. Before Itama escapes entirely, he licks the underside of Tajima’s chin, then takes off after his brother to collide headlong into Hikaku’s chest with a battle cry.

And just like that, the intimacy of their position registers. Butsuma goes stiff and still.

Despite Tajima supporting himself on outstretched arms, they’re close enough to share breath. Their chests brush on each inhale. Their stomachs flutter in tandem. The last time they were pressed together like this Butsuma was learning the pleasure of being filled for the first time. The pressure, the heat…

Tajima leans forward to nuzzle a large, triangular ear. “Oh, Sweetling, though neither of us hold the mantle of leadership any longer, straddling greatness comes naturally to you still,” he whispers.

And how thankful Butsuma is for his mate’s mercy. Such a well-timed joke. “You’re wicked,” he groans, using it as an excuse to sit up and bully Tajima back to a safer distance.

Wings rise and fall—black, red, and gold with reflected light—as Tajima throws his head back and chortles. “But only enough to keep things interesting,” he retorts, unbearably amused.

As if there was even the possibility of a dull moment in his orbit.

“If you’re finished,” Hikaku sighs, “what did the boys have to say? I’m surprised Madara let you go with your tail feathers intact this time.” He absently scratches Kawarama’s scarred cheek before removing the kit from his shoulders and tossing him directly onto Kagami. They both roll across the nest in a tumbleweed of feathers, fur, and laughter.

Sitting seiza and using Butsuma’s tails as a tatami mat, Tajima turns to track their progress. “Hmm, and why would my sweet, harmless chick commit such an unfilial crime?” he asks absently. “I was kind enough to leave their aerie unmolested this morning, I’ll have you know. From all of the screaming last night, I imagine they needed the sleep.”

Hikaku whistles in rhythmic, high-frequency bursts that has Kagami freezing in place, then resuming his game after realizing the admonishment isn’t for him. “It’s been an hour,” Hikaku says aloud, though there’s obviously a long line of meaning left untranslated. He gently removes Itama’s mouth from his ankle while directing the kit away from his jess.

“Rest assured, the mountain remains intact. I was chasing a waking dream, and no, I will not explicate further,” Tajima replies, firm, but not unkind. “Allow this to be one of the few mysteries I keep, love.”

He speaks as if he isn’t comprised almost entirely of mystery and well-intentioned lies to begin with. Understandable then why the answer fails to satisfy.

Jaw set, Hikaku lets loose a muted hawk’s cry that has Kagami dismounting from Itama’s withers in a hurry.

Butsuma studies Tajima in profile as he answers the call in a back and forth duet of wildly fluctuating bird song, the volume rising as each note builds off of the one before. They float up to gather between the rafters like ashes from a melodious battlefield. Of the two tengu, Hikaku is the only one whose wings display what he’s feeling—disbelief and a sense of, not anger, but uneasiness in the space his pinions start to take up. Feathers flutter along whatever stretch of skin isn’t covered by sheets or yukata.

Butsuma wants to interject, but he’s the last yōkai to demonstrate ‘functional’ anything, much less communication skills, so he watches in silence. All he can do is offer Kagami and his seedling shadow a tail to duck behind. Eyes wide, Kagami forgoes it in favor of sliding into his lap and pulling his arms over and in front of them in…an embrace? A shield? Butsuma isn’t sure. 

Hikaku’s dark eyes flash over to take measure of the situation before returning to Tajima. “You’re worse than Izuna,” he finally says, sounding far older than his years as he breaks back into common tongue.

Tajima tosses his head and sets his bangs to swaying. “Our darling chick wishes he could be as terribly ill-equipped for normalcy as I am,” he crows in a surprising show of self-awareness, “but your point is well taken.”

They observe each other for a long moment. Hikaku looks away first and tugs the front of his yukata to settle the panels straighter between his wings. “You’re sure about this?” he asks, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the deep-brown fabric.

Tajima reaches out to still his hand and tangle their fingers. “Yes. Quite certain,” he states. His knuckles turn as white as Hikaku’s scars for an instant and quickly fade back to pink. “The clan is not without a strong wing-shadow to flock in. I’ve seen to that much. The rest is none of their concern.”

Too consummate a warrior to react overtly, Hikaku still seems to soften around the edges with the praise. There’s nothing specific Butsuma can point to in order to justify his conclusion—he doesn’t know this stranger well enough—but it’s there nonetheless. Burgeoning acceptance.

“Okay.”

And the world breaks on Tajima’s blooming smile.

“Okay,” Hikaku repeats, soft as a ‘goodbye’. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Come on Kagami. Kits. I’m hungry and I’m sure you are too.” He rocks up to his knees and flaps once to get fully upright. The sheets billow where they’re not weighed down by his talons, purple and cream splashes of color spilling over Tajima’s lap.

Ears perking at the motion, Butsuma follows the graceful curve of his mate’s thighs under the linens until Kawarama leaps between them, leaving little fox prints in his wake.

“Finally!” he yips, completely unfazed by whatever just transpired between his elders.

Likewise immune, Itama patters up and over Butsuma’s shoulder to pounce down into the warm pocket Kagami had claimed. He worries the poor chick’s obi and tries to pull him off of Butsuma’s legs with short, aborted tugs. When all he achieves are a few sharp caws and being repeatedly slapped in the face by wings, he changes tactics and captures the seedling instead. 

Easy prey. It lets loose a kodama’s chitter as it slides happily along the nest, dragged half under Itama’s belly. Shrieking in affront, Kagami flaps wildly to give chase, trepidation forgotten.

“Is this alright?” Hikaku asks, motioning first to himself, then towards the motley crew of chicks and kits tumbling over each other.

It takes a Herculean effort, but Butsuma forces out a “yes.” A single word has never been so difficult to say. He doesn’t trust well or easily. To allow this tengu to accompany his kits is…difficult, but, Tajima holds him in high regard and that will have to be enough.

“Keep them out of trouble,” he warns, recalling the tight set of Hikaku’s shoulders when their situations were reversed not a few moments ago.

Hikaku waves him off. “They’re only children. I would ask you to do the same, but Indra himself couldn’t manage it with that one,” he mutters, stepping nimbly over the rim of the nest to retrieve his harness. 

His words fall heavy as a blessing. Butsuma only wishes he could be privy to what is being sanctified in the first place.

“Now, now. There’s no need to regale my Sweetling with tales of my impulsivity. He’ll come to craft far grander stories of his own in time. Perhaps today, even.” Tajima continues to smile enigmatically, holding his hand up to feel the light slanting in from beneath the eaves. His red-lacquered talons glimmer and Butsuma can’t help but to think red is the only color that suits him—red like blood, red like the eyes of the children they made together. “We’ll be along in a moment.”

Hikaku grunts, snapping his wings shut and setting off a muted series of chimes as his flight-straps settle in place beneath his yukata. He opens his mouth as if to say something more, then closes it again, instead turning to sweep towards the door. “Come on, you lot,” he says before sliding the panel open and stepping out into a blinding dawn. 

Firmly grasping his seedling’s hand, Kagami sticks his tongue out at Itama and hurries over to peck Tajima on the cheek. “Bye, Tajima Heika,” he chirps in a flurry of movement. Such an affectionate little thing. “Hikaku! Wait for us!” And off he goes, pelting after his new clan head with the inexhaustible energy all younglings seem to possess no matter the species.

The kits bound up into the depressions his talons leave behind not a second later, equally as innocent and ten times as hopeful. They look up with bright eyes and swishing tails, eager, but too timid to ask for the affection they’ve been denied for so long.

From now on they’ll learn that they don’t have to ask at all. 

Butsuma reaches out to caress each of his kits cheeks. Amazing how soft their fur is, how each beloved head fits in the scoop of his palm. And with that small touch, the dam breaks. As one, Itama and Kawarama surge into his arms, whining and squirming like livewires. Butsuma chuckles at the ridiculousness of it all and holds them close. A kiss for each and a brief nuzzle sets them to yowling in glee and tearing away to scrabble at Tajima’s chest.

It’s hard to breathe watching his mate croon a melody of belonging while welcoming new children into his life without question. A word of acceptance, then a kiss for each forehead before they’re patted towards the door and set loose on an unsuspecting world.

Butsuma’s stomach clenches. The scars of the soul-seal pulse in silent sympathy. Maybe Tajima was right. Maybe their family is still salvageable after all. One small victory at a time.

Voices and footsteps fade into the distance and disappear past the threshold of Butsuma’s hearing before he’s able to rally his scattered pieces enough to acknowledge Tajima’s nearness. He takes up the hand resting on his leg and scoots as close as he dares. 

It’s slightly nerve-wracking to be alone. The first time they were left to their own devices they fucked children into each other during wartime. The second left Butsuma with a limp and Tajima with a spectacular black eye, both of them half drowned. This time…

“What was all of that about?” he asks gruffly, speaking to keep himself from thinking too far ahead.

Black wings spread wide and pull back into a posture Butsuma hasn’t seen in a little over a century.

“I have a proposition,” Tajima says, “something that should have been discussed—” he stops to smile, a sharp, self-deprecating thing “—a very long time ago. And an offer as well if you’ll entertain it.”

Any offer he has will pale in comparison to simply having him here, Butsuma thinks. 

He looks down to study the differences between them, feeling the lines of callused skin where a gunbai should rest and comparing them to his own. He’s bigger than Tajima in the breadth of his shoulders and overall build, but Tajima’s fingers are slender and long enough to wrap over the tips of his. His mate’s dexterity is a sight to behold—Butsuma remembers that much.

“Whatever happened to keeping your mysteries?” he mutters when the silence grows too expectant.

Tajima huffs and comes out of seiza to sit on the nest and swing his thighs over Butsuma’s. He scoots forward as far as is comfortable, drawing attention to the hand-span disparity in their heights. “Hikaku rightfully reminded me that with you, I should have none,” he confesses, smooth and easy.

They’re close, so close Butsuma can feel the gravity of their bond take hold and urge him to close the gap. Tajima’s touch is every bit as enticing as it was that first night. His passion is powerful, and not only regarding the flames of attraction. Everything he does has energy to it—a kineticism that brightens even the most languid of days. 

Ignoring a hundred years of agony, Butsuma takes his mate’s hips and urges him up onto his lap just to be closer. Their foreheads touch. They breathe in tandem. The pain turns bittersweet because now his suffering has finally been given purpose. 

“Tajima,” he begins, only to falter.

Fortunately, his mate has enough words for them both. “Thoughts of you have never left me,” Tajima admits, rubbing their noses together with unmatched tenderness. “Even when I believed our time together was no more than a pleasant, if transient diversion, I lingered on imaginings of more.”

Butsuma flinches. He never thought they were anything less than mates from that first touch. While the wound is still raw, he knows it will heal in time—there’s no one to blame but circumstance. 

“We both did,” he murmurs into the sliver of space between them. 

Crooning, Tajima massages a circuit with his thumbs from the hinge of Butsuma’s jaw, up and around his temples. Chakra sparks and brings with it a spread of warmth and belonging, echoed in the slow embrace of wings.

The waking sounds of day beyond the aerie fall away until all Butsuma can hear is the soft rustle of feathers above and around them. 

“I’d like to make a home here with you,” Tajima whispers, following his quiet profession up with another calm flow of chakra. “With your approval, I would ask our dear kit to welcome a couple of aged yōkai to den on this very mountain. Though I believe Tobirama can be swayed, if the answer is ‘no,’ I will instead impose upon your skulk’s hospitality in order to retire by your side. Either way, I will not roost where you cannot follow and a true aerie is no place to raise young foxes.”

Butsuma swallows. Hard. He wants to tell Tajima he’s wrong, that Tobirama despises the zenko who birthed him and would sooner gut him than share a home. Nothing can sway Tobirama when he’s decided on a course of action, and he made it very clear last night that this sacred mountain is his domain and his alone. It’s too much. There are too many obstacles to overcome right now, some of which his son is likely unaware of. Three days ago the scrying pool had shown an egg with a zenko’s coloring—fat and heavy like the moon—the image rippling with possibility despite the still water.

There will be younglings in Tobirama’s future, of that he’s certain. He only hopes he can see them realized.

Overcome, Butsuma closes his eyes and focuses on the wavering memory as it bifurcates into two perfect promises.

Inari has never lied to him.

“Ah, are we moving too fast again?” Tajima warbles in concern, misinterpreting the silence.

Exhaling long and slow, Butsuma determinedly collects himself. “We always move too fast,” he points out, glad to have a reason to smile, even if it’s a broken thing steeped in melancholy. 

“Well, fast seems to be working for our boys,” Tajima quips as he strokes the mussed fur of Butsuma’s ears upright and presses the tips into points.

“They’re the exception, not the rule. We’re old enough to know better.”

Tajima rolls his eyes. “In theory,” he concedes.

They share a huff of laughter if only to relieve some of the quiet tension.

In a strange way, the misguided certitude of young yōkai is something Butsuma wishes they could recapture. Then the magic of the world wouldn’t be supplanted by political maneuverings and the needs of the many. Love would be the only occupying force in their lives—love, understanding, and just enough selfishness to grow a garden between them.

Though, perhaps Inari is giving them precisely that opportunity now.

A peace accord is in place. Being relics of war unmoored from the yoke of leadership, they’re technically not required to see to anyone’s needs outside of family. They’ll be…

He blinks after a long moment of stillness. 

“I want to get to know who Uchiha Tajima is,” he blurts out, apropos of nothing. Glossy coverts shift under his palms as Tajima’s thighs flex in surprise.

“Before we learn each other as mates? Of course, Sweetling.”

That’s not exactly it, but Butsuma can’t find the words to explain. He wants to fill the cracks in his soul with the knowledge of what it means to have a family as well as a mate. They’ll have that chance now, he realizes. And yes, Tobirama may be lost to him, but that’s no reason not to learn how to be better—to work at making sure his transgressions are never repeated. 

“Being allowed to share your life and your joy is all I could ever ask,” Tajima rolls on with a gentle brush of their cheeks, “be that as a lover or a friend. I left once and nearly destroyed you in my ignorance. I will not make that mistake again. I only ask that you give me this opportunity to try and make things right.”

Without question. Butsuma would do anything to make amends. Maybe the first step in that is giving up control. 

“Like I could ever say ‘no’ to you,” he rumbles, the sound more vibration than voice. Warmth spreads across his shoulders and flows up against his stomach and chest. Tajima’s scent is something he could drown in as his mate’s embrace pours over and through him like the healing balm of a hot spring.

Butsuma holds Tajima tight until the more superficial fissures in his heart can heal from proximity alone. 

“Thank you, my love. I will speak to our sons. No matter the outcome, if we are together no burden will ever be too great. We were forged in pain and have only ever know how to be shaped by that very same crucible, but rest assured, we will emerge stronger for having known the heat.”

Strong enough to heal and hardy enough to lift their children up to even greater heights.

Tajima is right.

Talons tangle in his hair, a familiar press of lips warms his forehead, and for the first time, Butsuma understands what it feels like to savor the gifts of the present, secure in the knowledge of a future.


	36. Hashirama and Tobirama POV split

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here it is, the final chapter. The next will be an epilogue set in the near future. <3

Hashirama sobs into his palms and wonders where he went wrong in raising his precious otouto. What has he ever done to have his feelings so casually brushed aside? So brutally deposed by… 

“I told you to fuck off, Hashirama!” Madara roars for the second time in as many minutes.

It’s a little cute, honestly. The mokuton floor shudders with the power of his friend’s barely contained chakra and Hashirama shivers right along with it. He knows he’s hypocritical to judge Madara for being overprotective, but it’s not like he’s even gotten past the doorway yet. Another raging swirl of fire sweeps around the nest and Hashirama puts a little more effort into his tears. 

It’s either that or give in to his laughter.

“But my Tobiii,” he whines, drawing out the sound, “I want to—” Swallowing abruptly, he manages to strangle the damning words before they tumble out. Asking to feel the baby right now would be suicide, even for him. With the way Madara is puffed up and flexing his talons like a brooding hen...yeah, no thanks. Missing limbs are itchy and inconvenient when they grow back. Instead, he pretends he wasn’t eavesdropping on everyone and everything last night, sobs even harder for affect, and drops to his knees with a resounding thunk.

“But I want to wish my otouto good luck today. And,” a wet sniffle, “and he’ll be dancing soon and I need to make sure the kodama don’t have to refit his kimono!”

There’s movement in the nest, shifting blankets and a chirrup of complaint in a register that’s all Izuna. Funny that he’s not the one having a fit right now.

Hashirama braves a peek to see his brother reach out and settle Madara with a touch. Tobirama’s world moves in such strange ways, but this particular dance doesn’t seem so different as it crescendos towards it’s natural conclusion. From the kodama’s first whispers of a soul bond, Hashirama suspected these particular rootlets of his found-family would burrow a home together quicker than kudzu. It’s nice to be proven right. Nicer still to know they won’t be finding new soil once everything is said and done.

“Consider me appropriately sanctified by your blessing,” Tobirama deadpans as he stands tall, unashamed in his nudity. Red sheets pool at his feet and black feathers flit behind him as his tails sway in contentment. 

The elders were correct when they first announced Tobirama’s white fur to be an omen, even if they took that mantle back not long after. Hashirama can see the perfect marriage of Inari and Indra’s blessings in him—how they’ve coalesced into the shape of a promising future for both clans.

Rubbing at a love bite on his hip, Tobirama leaps over the nest edge to land soundlessly on the floor. He pads over and nudges the ceremonial kimono blanketing Hashirama’s lap with a paw.

“I’m not wearing that. Our clan’s symbolism has no place on my body,” he says, firm, but not unkind. “Now leave, Anija. I can ready myself for the ascension without your assistance.”

Underneath the scents of Madara and Izuna’s wing oil, Tobirama still smells like the same kit Hashirama raised. Thinking back on those simpler days has a queer sensation building in Hashirama’s chest—affection so strong he wants to squeeze his otouto until he pops. Eh. Maybe losing his arms would be okay just this once? Mito can brush his hair for the next few days if that’s the price of loving his brother.

Wailing, he launches himself up to crush Tobirama in a wet hug. The warmth and the explosive cursing are everything he imagined they would be. And if he takes advantage of the ensuing commotion to trickle a little exploratory chakra in where their skin touches, well, there’s no one aware enough to complain.

“You’re dead,” Madara bellows, wings snapping wide behind him and upending half the nest. Again, Izuna uncharacteristically keeps his peace and Hashirama can’t help but think he’s missed something important there.

“Anija!” Tobirama snaps. His wriggling wins him just enough space to get a leg up and brace his paw against Hashirama’s stomach. Unclipped claws flex in preparation.

This is going to hurt like hell, Hashirama knows from experience. He grins through the lingering tears regardless and laughs as he goes sailing with one, vicious kick, expecting to tumble off the aerie and slam through the forest canopy below. Before he can even feel the bite of the railing against his back, a solid wall interrupts the momentum. Grunting, Butsuma stumbles a pace and whips his tails wildly in counterbalance as he takes Hashirama’s weight.

They look at each other, both a little stunned until Butsuma’s lips thin and his hold softens into something that could be mistaken for an embrace. He’s trying to repress a  _ smile _ , Hashirama realizes.

“Why pray tell are you abusing the local flora?” Tajima’s melodious voice rises up a heartbeat before he steps into Hashirama’s line of sight and gently pats the back of Butsuma’s hand where it rests over Hashirama’s heart. “First you three refuse to allow your fathers an hour of rest without being subjected to your awful caterwauling, then I walk past your aerie to find you abusing your dear elder sibling. What am I to do with you brats?”

Hashirama can’t see Tajima’s expression from behind, but he can hear the puckish grin in his voice.

“Tousan!” Izuna cries, the first words out of his mouth this morning and said with far too much cheer. He scrabbles over the wreckage of their nest—holding his sleeping yukata closed with one hand—and shoves past Madara and Tobirama to snatch his father up in a one-armed hug. 

Half of his feathers are askew and in desperate need of preening, but that doesn’t stop Izuna from fluttering them in excitement and inadvertently sweeping the floor clean.

“Are you alright, son?” Butsuma rumbles at the exact same moment Izuna whispers something that makes Tajima’s knees give out. There’s a sudden flurry of activity and Hashirama can’t help but summon a fleet of kodama in panic as his ears twitch between the half dozen tableaus playing out.

All he wanted was to give Tobirama his kimono this morning and maybe get a quick hug in. That’s all. Really.

Whistling like he’s dying, Tajima clutches Izuna close and smashes his poor chick’s face into his shoulder. Izuna doesn’t seem to mind, though, only holds on equally as tight. Ripples of muscle flex throughout the arm he has locked around his father’s neck. Much more tame since his outburst only a minute ago, Madara approaches them on the floor and sinks down to cosset them both in wings. 

“We should give them some privacy,” Butsuma mutters as he helps Hashirama regain his feet. “There’ll be plenty of time to ask later.”

This is Hashirama’s forest, his home, his root network—there’s no such thing as true privacy. He understands where his father is coming from, though. What’s unfolding between Tajima and his sons is a little too raw to spectate without overstepping. Even so, there are wheels turning that were set in motion a hundred years ago.

“But Tobi has to wear his kimono and if he doesn’t get to the stage before the sun peaks…” Hashirama begins to argue.

“Then Inari can learn some fucking patience,” Butsuma scoffs. “It’s your brother’s ascension. He’s his own zenko. Let him do whatever he thinks best.”

A swish of silk has them both swiveling an ear towards where Tobirama finishes tying off his obi and freezes. He hovers next to his mates without breathing and body still as midnight. Red eyes lock on Butsuma’s face as if trying to decipher the trap hidden in his complacency.

They all have a long road of healing ahead of them, Hashirama realizes.

In the end, family will be a reward well worth the trial.

***

Sunlight catches at floating baubles throughout the shrine. Tobirama taps one in passing and smiles at the gentle melody that rings out from under his claw. Their beauty is bright, their melody sweet, but even kitsune magic fails to compare to the splendor of what’s to come.

He smiles at the thought of racing through this ridiculous pomp to settle in peace with his mates. They’ll kick every single yōkai off their mountain—katon-assisted if necessary—and lock the place down for the next century or two. In an ideal world, at least. He doubts Hashirama or Tajima would stand for it any longer than a fortnight before joining forces and overpowering the wards. 

Amazing how his family has miraculously grown both larger and more obnoxious over the course of three days. More beloved as well.

Regardless, there are formalities to address before he can focus on bolstering his seal-work.

He looks to the kagura suzu in his hand—light with its slender bone handle and delicate bells stacked like the fruit of the ogatama tree. Each chime brings with it a fragrant accompaniment meant to entice Inari into taking their seat in Tobirama’s skin. Figuratively, at least. The sign of the kami’s favor is already nestled deep in his womb. Another year will see the world blessed with it outright in the shape of their offspring.

Tobirama eagerly awaits that day, though he wonders if his recalcitrant mate will be able to keep from self-destructing before then.

“I don’t care what ‘custom dictates’,” Madara hisses, the tomoe in his eyes spinning too fast to track, “you’re not touching our mate. You can teach us this dance and then kindly fu—”

“Fulfill Inari’s hallowed traditions by proxy,” Tajima interjects smoothly. “We would never seek to dishonor your kami, Elder Ichariba. However, Tobirama’s ascension holds equal import in Indra’s eye and I must insist that our kami be represented as well. Allowing this dear kit’s mates to accompany him in your place seems an easy compromise.”

Pretty as the sentiment may be, Tobirama knows it’s just another layer of machinated nonsense to avoid an incident. Funny how Madara began their engagement as the voice of reason—a bastion of temperance when their blood ran hot—and now he can’t seem to keep his own fire banked for more than five minutes at a time. 

Brooding instinct, indeed.

Tobirama would be lying if he said he didn’t find it endearing.

“While I understand your concerns, it’s simply not done,” Elder Ichariba protests, one paw already placed on the first step of the stage where the ascension dance will take place. Her poise doesn’t falter in the face of three expectant tengu and she manages to keep her expression placid despite Tobirama’s loud, arrhythmic chiming of the kagura suzu behind them.

Admirable. He steps up both the pace and volume, pleased to note the elder’s ears twitching with the urge to flatten. 

It’s only as he’s getting into a truly spectacular cacophony that his entertainment is brought to an abrupt end. A large, sun-kissed hand comes to rest atop of his, stilling the chimes until their merry tinkling peters out, then slips away. 

Tobirama freezes. It’s the first time he can recall being touched by the zenko who sired him. He wouldn’t have expected Butsuma’s hands to hold warmth of any kind, much less a flash of gentleness, there and gone faster than a lightning strike. 

He would raise his metaphorical hackles at Butsuma’s daring if the intent didn’t appear so...natural—the echo of a habit from another time, a different son, too deeply ingrained to stop.

It’s interesting the way Butsuma sucks in air and hurries to put distance between them following his faux pas. Strangely enough, his retreat seems to be for Tobirama’s benefit, not his own. Such a bizarre world they’ve all set in motion.

Butsuma fleetingly glances at him, then turns to cross his arms and settle his weight onto one leg at Tajima’s side. His tails rise and fall in a graceful wave of brown, though his very visible soul tail stays anchored around Tajima’s cannon. “This peace accord is something that’s ‘not done,’ too. Stop arguing and just show them the damn dance,” he advises, sounding far older than his years. “They have more right to be on that stage than any of us.”

He holds up the same hand he had touched Tobirama with and offers it to Ichariba. Sighing, she sets her palm on his, chakra building, before lifting up a centimeter at a time to reveal golden kitsune magic coalescing in the shape of small brass bells, a bone handle, and long flowing ribbons of black and white. 

The kagura suzu is an exact duplicate to Tobirama’s. 

“They may have that right in your eyes, but what about Inari’s?” Ichariba inquires, voice light and melodious despite the refusal blaring bright. In the rare instances Tobirama has seen her, she’s been congenial and accepting as a rule, but tradition and belief have always been the backbone of zenko society. What is being asked of her is much bigger than a dance. This insistence on going against the recommendation of a  saishu is tantamount to sacrilege.

But what the elder doesn’t understand is Tobirama doesn’t care a whit and if the point is pushed, he’ll happily push right back. With Madara clawing deep gouges in the stone floor and Izuna smirking in a way that means nothing but trouble, he won’t be alone when he tosses the bells down and walks away.

The only dance that mattered was the one that brought them together last night under the prayer lanterns then later between the sheets.

“My dear,” Tajima begins. 

Ichariba meets Tajima’s blind gaze headlong, spreading her arms to bring the long ribbons to bear between them. “I’m sorry, but the answer has to be ‘no,’ Tajima,” she states softly. 

As soon as the words leave her lips, the black ribbon reacts violently. Feathers sprout along its length in a burst of chakra so subtle it would go unnoticed by anyone without Tobirama’s sensitivity. The white ribbon whips free of Ichariba’s grip, rises to meet its counterpart, and twists around it until one is indistinguishable from the other. 

Inhaling sharply, she backpedals and drops the kagura suzu.

It continues to hover in place, righting itself and chiming in a strange, multi-tonal chord when Tajima reverently grasps the handle in her place. “It would appear that Inari’s will parallels my own,” Tajima concludes cheerfully. “And I’m certain you wouldn’t mind if my Sweetling were to instruct our sons in your stead? There is indisputable power in bonds of the heart, as your kami seems to have made very clear.” 

Ichariba can only nod as her gauzy kimono lifts on an invisible wind. She bows on instinct even though Butsuma and Tajima are no longer heads of their respective clans and excuses herself quickly. Black fur ripples down her spine as she transforms mid-step and bounds away through the gathering of spectators.

Once her shadow-like silhouette disappears into the innermost shrine, Butsuma exhales explosively and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did you really just…” he moans.

“Avoid a catastrophic argument involving our dear chick’s dew claw felling an influential zenko in defense of his mate? As a matter of fact, I did, my love.” Tajima flutters his wings and spreads his tail feathers in a display Tobirama has come to understand as playfully flirtatious. “Never underestimate the mental instability of a tengu protecting their flock.” He tosses the bells to Butsuma in punctuation.

“My mistake,” Butsuma drawls, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and rubbing viciously as if to clear them.

Barely a second later, Madara’s head snaps towards his father as he lets loose a single, surprised hawk’s cry. It sounds like epiphany.

Before he can say anything further, Tajima sideswipes him with a wing and bullies him into silence.

For an instant, Tobirama swears he can feel the world warp in his periphery—the queer sensation there and gone between breathes. When his chakra resettles, Tajima has crow hopped near enough to press Madara’s cheeks between his palms and kiss his forehead.

“Don’t act so surprised, chick. My eyes used to be as red as your own. The cataracts merely made me more inventive in their application,” he admonishes, “and a touch of obfuscation is the least of the crimes I will have perpetrated for my family by the time I’m caught.” Leaning over, he trills and gently bumps heads with Izuna. “Now, that’s enough of that. You three have choreography to learn and a lifetime of love to impart. The sooner you work on the former, the more quickly you can proceed to the latter.”

Whatever just happened here, Tobirama can’t begin to fathom, but completing the kagura dance is something he can latch onto with teeth. He pointedly chimes his kagura suzu once, eyes narrowed and expression flat.

Madara doesn’t appear soothed by any means—his coverts stay standing and his unruly hair along with them. Still, he isn’t so far gone as to ignore what is clearly a mild rebuke. “Fine,” he concedes, though it’s Izuna that keeps them moving forward and whistles for Butsuma to proceed.

And proceed they do.

They all mount the stage under the curious eyes of the awaiting elders, Hikaku and his delegation highlighted at their center by the light of Mito’s wings. Hashirama motions enthusiastically from his seat next to them, but Tobirama only rolls his eyes and waves him off. It’s unsettling to be so exposed up here on this large stone plinth. Not even the swirling eves offer more than an open frame between them and the sky. 

“The sequence is simple. If Tajima can fumble his way through it once upon a time, so can you,” Butsuma says, sidestepping the backhand aimed for his chest. Lips twitching to stave off a smile, he raises the kagura suzu and brings it to midline before him, arms extended, spine straight.

Laugh lines dig troughs at the corners of his eyes and mouth—a fossil-record of a life lived well prior to the sealing. Tobirama swallows heavily and focuses instead on his sire’s movements.

“Watch.”

Step forward. Ribbons stretched. Arms out. Arms in. Turn in place and repeat.

Holy as they may be, there’s no spirit to the sequence of steps, no magic, no heart.

Tobirama clutches at his obi to quell the building nausea. There’s something inherently wrong in the choreography, a sense of sterility that rings false on a soul-deep level. Nothing about their union is scripted, nor composed. He and his mates are the embodiment of raw emotion. For all that Madara would try to deny it, they have been impulsive—guided by instinct and powered by longing towards a destiny that will rise to meet them through sheer force of will.

These dance steps might entice Inari’s notice, but a kami’s footfalls could never encompass the totality of Tobirama’s ascension, nor the wellspring of passion he’s found there.

His mates deserve more than an empty zenko promise made hollow through the years.

“Stop,” he finally grinds out, standing tall and refusing to raise the bells any longer.

Butsuma stills, arms upraised, hips canted back past any natural sort of balance point, and weight held entirely on one back leg. He lowers his kagura suzu and stands slowly so as not to spook.

“I understand if it’s…if having me here is too much. I can call Hashirama up, instead,” he offers in misunderstanding.

Tobirama is half tempted to accept the proposal on principle, but keeps his opinion confined to a quiet scoff. He owes Tajima that much. Fortunately, Izuna answers when the silence stretches too long.

“No, you’re fine. He means the dance is all wrong. It just doesn’t sit right,” Izuna chirps, shaking his head, but unable to offer further direction. When gesticulations and a doleful series of whistles fails to convey his point any more plainly, he resorts to swatting Madara’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “You explain it, Nii-san.”

“You’re the dancer,” Madara retorts, capturing Izuna’s hand to nip at his knuckles and soothe each imprint with a kiss.

“Ah, I’m so glad to see my eloquence successfully imparted to the next generation,” Tajima chimes in, one eyebrow raised. “Perhaps one of you could demonstrate for us, instead, since articulation is an impossible feat.”

A simple, effective solution to be sure.

“I will claim that honor,” Tobirama announces. Without a single iota of remorse, he tosses the kagura suzu over his shoulder and listens to it tumble across the stage and fall to the flagstones below with a clang that speaks to finality.

There’s a gasp from the crowd, but he doesn’t pay them any mind

He breathes in long and slow, allowing the same instinct that led him to accept his soulmates to take hold of him once more. In it, he can find only wonder.

Filled with sudden purpose, Tobirama closes his eyes and imagines.

A phantom hand holds him steady at the hips as another encourages one leg to rise in time with the opposite arm. Somehow, he knows that Madara should be the pillar supporting the graceful curve of his body, Tobirama himself a crescent moon on a backdrop of black wings. Izuna’s palm should be pressed against his own as he vaults up to hover and complete the chain, raising him to new heights.

Gravity pulls him down into a graceful tumble across the stage just as love pulls him back up again in the shape of Madara’s hand. Izuna’s chakra flares bright at his side, overpowering the chill of the stone beneath their feet and filling the space with warmth. A subtle breeze kicks up in his passing—smelling of rosehips.

Quaffing the scent of devotion, Tobirama spins a tight pirouette with arms upraised. The wind gives chase and lifts his tails and the panels of his haori like wings to see him through the motion again and again. He can sense Madara and Izuna joining him in this waking dream with impeccable synchronicity. Around him, in him, through him. This is intimacy of the highest level and one he’s not sure if he should be sharing so outright with his clan and the heavens watching.

He slams to an abrupt stop mid-spin, opening his eyes to find the edge of the stage teasing his paws and a dozen foxes watching in rapt fascination. Only then does he realize his mates’ participation was no illusionary construct. Madara grasps his waist and lifts him from behind with arms outstretched, pushing him up into his ascension through sheer, unbridled strength alone. Tobirama lets it happen. He allows himself to go soft in his mate’s hold until the ground meets his paws once more and Izuna flows in seamlessly to carry him into the next lift. 

A flash of black coverts, a sturdy set of shoulders to lie across, and Tobirama once more puts his trust—his faith—into the yōkai he has grown to cherish most.

Izuna laughs, high and bright, as he swirls them around and around, slowing only to shift his hold. As graceful as a current and equally as smooth, he maneuvers Tobirama into the safety of his arms.

There should be something off-putting about being carried like a fragile thing, but Tobirama can only find elation in the surrender. Not even a touch of vertigo can dissuade him from arching back to receive a chaste, upside down kiss as Madara moves to take point once more. 

Everything about their touch sets his soul on fire. It’s a conflagration that can’t be contained, his mates’ acceptance a far more potent tinder than prayer sticks ever could be.

He sighs into the kiss and allows himself to be coaxed back up to offer Izuna their combined taste.

At the first press of lips a burst of chakra floods though the roots of Tobirama’s hoshi no tama to rock the mountain. Overcome, Tobirama kicks out and whips forward, grounding his paws in that tremulous earth. Izuna supports him though the motion with wings spread wide to cloister his grace in shadow.

“Tobirama,” Madara and Izuna whisper in one combined voice. Their breath stokes the growing whirlwind around them and Tobirama can’t resist but to call out for them in turn. Not in fear, but in reverence. In promise.

As if on cue, the three of them back up with a playful series of leaps to put distance between their center.

A single heartbeat. One shared breath.

Then, divinity strikes in the space it’s been given.

They stamp the ground in rhythmic union and thrust their arms towards each other, heads thrown back. In the kami’s sight, they fashion a three-pointed star, the burning center of which sets their steps aflame with kitsune fire. First blue, then white, then as black as the void of Indra’s eye.

Their combined might threads into the storm and rips the tie from Izuna’s hair, setting it loose to rise. When he and Madara reunite it’s the elegant bloom of two ink spills flowing together to render a star-flecked night.

Once more, Tobirama arches into the dance to show that he can be their celestial moor with soft knees and stardust grace. He spins until a final leap sees him seated in the air and riding that cushion down to the stage. The landing is elegant, setting him to roll on his hip and rise in a one-armed backbend.

He is the moon cresting the horizon and reaching for the night to house him.

Madara and Izuna answer the call without hesitation.

The world falls away around them and Tobirama grins into the gale knowing this is where their story begins.


	37. Epilogue: Madara's POV

“Eggshell’s back!” Izuna cries.

Without warning, he leaps up from the massive tree swing Hashirama coaxed to life three years ago—when rocking was the only thing that could ease Tobirama’s nausea—and sets it to whipping wildly.

Madara smiles, leaning his weight onto the back of the bench and allowing his wings to drape bonelessly over it as he rides the wobble to a standstill. Souta and Kaito cheep their surprise but settle soon enough under a gentle hand.

It’s become habit to gather here in the dappled shadow of the mountain’s god-tree each morning as the sun rises. A pot of tea shared between mates, sleepy chicks sprawled out across their laps, and serenity built deep into the bones of the home they’ve made. 

Seeding their own family traditions came as naturally as their bond. Just as quickly, too.

Madara watches his brother as he dashes down the hill, lithe and graceful as a swift. Clods of soil fly up from beneath his talons, rising too slowly to have a chance at dirtying his tail feathers. Safety and good sense serve as only a mild encumberment in his mad dash to greet the landing party.

It’s only been two months, but their mountain has been far too quiet with Tousan, Butsuma, and the kits harassing Hikaku where he nests instead of hounding them night and day. Mornings have felt incomplete without waking to fox kits tugging on his pinions or rolled up in his otouto’s hair. Funny how the little brats never dare to give Tobirama the same rough treatment.

Madara’s smile grows wide enough to ache.

A welcome heat against his side, Tobirama stirs only enough to straighten from his slouch and brush Madara’s hair back behind his ear. He chirrs as he plants a sweet kiss to his temple.

“Mmm, Kagami returned with them this time,” he observes. “At least we were fortunate enough to garner two years of peace between visits.”

Madara grunts, accepting Tobirama’s face against his neck and fingers between his own. “Don’t bother pretending. You missed him too, you oni’s ass.” 

Tobirama laughs. “If you say so,” he huffs, amused and so completely at ease. Amazing what a handful of years can accomplish with love at their core. Nuzzling close, they both look to one of their more far-ranging heartstrings.

Full-blooded Tengu chicks grow quickly by necessity, but it’s still incredible to note the difference another couple of years have made. Kagami has grown tall for his age—gangly and not quite as comfortable in his skin as he will be when he fills out with flight-muscle. Madara is pleased to note he doesn’t have nearly as much down as Izuna had at that age.

Kagami has the makings of a truly spectacular young tercel. And at his side…

Madara sighs into his mate’s hair.

“I can’t even tell Bobblehead is a kodama anymore,” he murmurs. Not that it ever truly had been. Butsuma tried to explain the difference between the God tree’s seedlings and Hashirama’s forest spirits to him once, but Izuna chose that moment to divebomb the old fox in another stupid chase game, and Madara didn’t bother bringing it up again. Blood doesn’t determine family, and Kagami’s parents are happy with their new addition. That’s all that really matters in the end.

“He’s chosen ‘Uchiha Ren’ as his name, Koibito,” Tobirama corrects him.

“Oh,” Madara hoots, surprised. “When did that happen?”

“Two years ago, for the observant.”

The dry, judgmental tone is entirely unnecessary, Madara thinks. He rolls his eyes where Tobirama can’t see and drops his head back to look towards the canopy. “You’re full of shit,” he announces to the golden-tipped leaves swaying above them. The foliage whispers in a language only Hashirama understands, but even a tengu knows when he’s being laughed at. 

Warm lips slide up along the arch of his neck, pausing over his pulse point.

“I am,” Tobirama admits easily as he presses an imprint into Madara’s skin with his teeth then licks away the ache. “I overheard them say it just now. It’s a clever bit of wordplay for a creature who’s only recently begun to speak.”

Madara snorts.

It’s cute, but not surprising to see a spark of cleverness in Kagami’s flight companion. Everything about Bobbl—Ren, he corrects himself—is sharp, from the shadows on his pale complexion to the white-flecked swallowtail he’s grown in and honed to a point. The only rounded corners the seedling has are obviously cues taken from Kagami and the other Uchiha fledglings. Madara is certain there’s no reason for it to choose to look so damn awkward otherwise. With those knobby, adolescent knees, a strong backdraft could take him out, regal plumage and adult-sized wings or not. 

“Would you like to greet them, or shall we allow the world to continue spinning until the gravity of hearth and home returns our family to us here?” Tobirama murmurs gently so as not to disturb his thoughts.

As warm as the bloom in his chest is at the notion, patience is not one of Madara’s virtues by any stretch of the imagination. He squeezes his mate’s fingers and inches forward towards the edge of the bench in answer. “When have we ever waited?” he asks wryly, the ‘for anything’ strongly implied. “Come on.”

Tobirama moves with him, only disengaging to stretch the lethargy from his body and ease Souta up into his arms.

Their firstborn protests being moved, triangular tufts of feathers rising and falling where a kitsune’s ears would be as he chirps then burrows into the front of his father’s yukata. Of a similar temperament, Kaito flaps his little white wings with a plaintive yip. He musters just enough energy to drag Madara’s hair over him like a blanket before falling limp against his chest. Such precious things.

Amazing how Madara shares a life and a home with his mates now, yet this comfortable domesticity between them never fails to take his breath away. Too, it’s been lovely to see Izuna so at peace. Fatherhood suits him just as well as Madara knew it would.

As if on cue, an explosive screech echoes from down the hill and just beyond Madara’s line of sight.

Ah. So at peace. 

It’s nice to know that some things will never change—that his brother will always be a delightful mess.

Branches crack. Underbrush falls under talons. Then, the shrieks grow louder and finally resolve into actual words. 

“I forgot my chicks!” Izuna cries, flapping his wings madly to dash back up the hill even faster than he went down it. Sunlight glints off of his spread pinions. The pale green yukata Tobirama likes best on him—the one with the dancing kappa embroidered along the collar—flares out, billowing around his knees. There’s an indescribable grace in his athleticism even if his wild squawking ruins the affect. 

Madara shakes his head. “They’re ours too, you realize?” he points out as his brother skids to a stop before them.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Izuna retorts, panting and taking a moment to lean on his knees, “and maybe one day that fantasy of yours will stick.” He looks up from beneath his bangs with nothing but unwavering adoration underlying the mischief.

“Oh, I’ll give you a fantasy to stick,” Madara snarls, playacting offense.

“Promise?”

Cheeky little brat.

Looking far too entertained, Tobirama approaches their mate with a smile and cups the side of his face. The touch is gentle. Reverent. Even after having a handful of years to learn each other’s skin, every stroke remains a gift to be cherished.

“The more you speak, the less time you’ll have with Kagami before he must inevitably fly home,” Tobirama reminds him. “Here, Koibito.” All it takes is a subtle nudge and the scent of Izuna close to have Souta blindly reaching out and slipping onto Izuna’s hip without a single objection this time. They’re beautiful together—a perfect painting of Uchiha-black and a magpie’s plumage, only missing one more stroke to finish the portrait.

Kaito pushes up from under Madara’s hair and, sensing Izuna-shaped coddling, calls for his father as well. Another easy transfer. Finally, the image is complete.

The same slender waist that takes Madara’s hands so well was made to hold chicks. Izuna has never looked quite so vibrant—so alive and present in the moment—as he does with their family close enough to keep. He nuzzles Kaito’s hair and blows white down off of Souta’s kimono.

“Ready to go meet your flockmate, my little peepers?”

The sleepy chirps he receives are the closest to enthusiasm he’ll be getting this early in the day.

He looks up to Madara and Tobirama, smile soft, sweet, and indescribably fond. “See you soon. Love you,” he says the same way he does every time they part, even if it’s only for a moment.

“You too, Otouto,” Madara responds immediately and with a conviction that has never wavered. The choreography of their affection hasn’t had a single variation since the first day they danced its steps, but with practice and a new partner they’ve found a way to make each circuit build upon the last. It’s powerful, this passion they share. Exponentially growing.

As is his preference, Tobirama replies with touch.

He wraps his fist in the front of Izuna’s yukata, eyes half-lidded and glittering the same deep burgundy Inari’s markings have become. He pulls, gentle as feather fall, and leans down carefully so as not to disturb their dozing chicks. Their kiss is acceptance and naked adoration wrapped in a sweet press of lips. 

Beautiful.

Tobirama has come into his own since the ascension, all the power of the Naka leveed beneath his skin. The taste of his lips is cool and clear now, Madara knows, his chakra a magma flow by contrast. It’s an addictive feeling to be held tight against his chest—buffeted against his shores. Madara is reacquainted with this fact time and time again throughout the day and Izuna is too. Still, his brother surges into the kiss like it’s his first.

They know they won’t truly be able to have their fill—given one lifetime, or two, or twenty—but his mates will always be willing to glutton themselves on what they can in the moment. Warmth and mate. Family and home.

Sighing, Tobirama retreats. He evades Izuna’s attempt at a second taste and nuzzles the flush high on his cheeks. He shifts then to stroke their chicks’ heads and pull away.

“Later,” he says, “Kagami’s wings are displaying his impatience.”

Izuna blinks as if waking from a dream, eyes widening to the point Madara can see the whites. “Kagami!” He spins on his hind claw, spreads his wings, and immediately dives back the way he had come without another word. His steps are a touch less violent on account of the precious payload on his hips, but the turf continues to take the brunt of his enthusiasm all the same.

Hand in hand, Madara and Tobirama follow in Izuna’s tracks much more sedately. Small tendrils of grass and flowered vine flow out from beneath Tobirama’s paws to stitch the furrows back together in their passing. Kitsune fire burns away the displaced soil, leaving the trail as pristine as it was before being churned up by talons.

This entire mountain has become their shrine, and Tobirama it’s dutiful maiden.

Madara chortles and he knows damn well Tobirama can feel what he’s laughing at though the bond. They elbow each other back and forth—subtly and under the guise of leaning in close to share secrets—until Tobirama intercepts the next attempt and guides Madara’s arm around his waist instead. He settles his own arm across Madara’s shoulders like a beloved, well-worn pelt.

They slot together so naturally now. No hesitation. No second guessing. Madara leans into it and soaks up the simple joy.

Down the hill, Izuna skids to a stop just long enough to ease Kaito and Souta into their grandfather’s arms and kiss Tajima’s cheek before taking off at full speed to divebomb Kagami. They both go down screeching and shrieking with joy with Itama and Kawarama immediately joining the fray.

Grass flies, wings bat the ground, and Madara’s heart soars.

“Was Kagami’s last visit really before the hatching?” he asks. Time seems to have both slowed and sped up since he and Izuna shared Tobirama’s ascension before the eyes of kami and clan. Tousan would claim it was a side-effect of a year of rampant mother-hen neuroticism, but Tajima can kindly keep his opinions to himself.

“It was,” Tobirama answers.

“Hard to believe so much time has passed. How do you think he’s doing with the shakuhachi?”

Madara himself has never touched an instrument in his life, much less a bamboo stalk that wasn’t shaved into stave or tipped in poison. Neither has Izuna for that matter. There was little time for anything other than survival prior to the peace accord. It’s incredible to think that these up and coming generations will have the opportunity to pursue their interests.

To truly live.

Tobirama squeezes his waist. “I imagine he’s quite proficient, though perhaps you would be better served asking him directly while I go rescue our kits from becoming degenerates by osmosis,” he laments dryly.

Groaning, Madara glances up to where Tajima croons saccharine bullshit he can’t hear but can imagine all too well. “Please. We don’t need any more Uchiha Tajimas,” he rumbles.

Despite his feigned displeasure, they continue to approach the glade pressed up against each other. There’s no danger. No need to separate or hurry when sharing space is so much sweeter.

Great shafts of sunlight pierce the God tree’s canopy—it’s boughs massive and far reaching above them—to illuminate Tajima’s smile. Butsuma rests his chin on his mate’s shoulder from behind and yips a gentle admonishment for something untoward that has the chicks perking up from sleep like lilies in the rain. 

A hare-brained prank or another idiotic game more than likely. Souta and Kaito are only two years old and have already been subjected to Tajima’s particular brand of mischief, though they hardly understand it at all. They just like to see the adults squawking.

Reluctantly, Tobirama slips away from Madara’s side, his tails a hypnotizing monotone against the grass that rises to meet his paws.

“Tousan, you know better than to speak to our chicks unsupervised,” he chides, promptly bumping foreheads as he reclaims their chicks without a beat of hesitation. They squirm and cheep in an attempt to get back to their grandfather’s cheery voice, but quiet once they realize Butsuma’s embrace is next. Souta in particular has been fixated on the tod’s tearstain markings since his eyes turned from blue to black. Today is no different. He stares. Butsuma stares back, still in awe that he’s allowed this. It’s all a little ridiculous.

“I’ll have you know I may speak to my grandchicks as I please,” Tajima retorts loftily. “My dear sons seem to be incapable of teaching these sweet younglings the value of entertainment, and so I must tutor them in the ways of...”

“Their entertainment or yours?” Tobirama asks, cutting him off at the pass.

“I hardly think that is a distinction that matters,” Tajima scoffs.

Laughing, Tobirama eases Kaito onto Butsuma’s hip and scoops Souta up to sit astride his shoulders where tall, fur-tipped ears will keep him most distracted. “Their delinquency will be on your head if this tengu’s influence passes your guard,” he tells Butsuma, holding solid eye contact the way they were unable to at the beginning.

The tentativeness and reluctance to trust is still there, but not nearly so debilitating as it had been before he deigned to allow Tajima and Butsuma to den on their mountain with Kawarama and Itama. Nesting as a flock might never happen, or maybe it will at some point. This at least is progress towards healing the wounds of the past.

Butsuma shakes his head and reaches back to gently pry Souta’s fingers off of the mating token neatly braided into his hair. “I’ll try, but you’re saddling me with a losing battle,” he mutters.

Tobirama pats his shoulder precisely once. “Effort is all I require.” He turns away without acknowledging the underlying meaning of his words and lopes over to greet Kagami and Ren, stroking Madara’s wing in passing, tender as a kiss.

Sighing, Tajima spreads his wings in a lazy half-spread and sinks down into seiza. His claws are lacquered in gold today, an exact match to Butsuma’s obi, to which he gives a pointed yank. Butsuma immediately folds under his mate’s direction and fans his tails around them, chicks and all.

It’s good to see his fathers so content. For all of the shit Madara gives his tousan, Tajima has lived a hard life in service to their clan. He deserves this taste of uninhibited joy more than any other yōkai. 

“So when are you two going to give my chicks playmates?”

His question is met with a beat of silence. Tajima and Butsuma look to each other for a moment before touching noses and tangling even closer.

“We have centuries to increase our flock and grow our uchiwa, love,” Tajima answers for them both. “Kawarama and Itama are owed our undivided affections right now.”

The admission speaks to something private that Madara, for all his bluntness, is loath to intrude upon.

“How did they do on the flight?” he asks instead.

“Kawa flash-stepped the entire way,” Butsuma says, joy in his bearing and delight in his smile. His laugh lines have grown deep in these past two years of discovering found family. 

“Indeed!” Tajima bursts in. “We were all very proud. Itama, of course, feigned exhaustion three flaps out and happily perched on Butsuma’s haunches for the remainder. Such a clever, young tod.”

It’s not surprising. Itama, easily the most skilled of the kits in kitsune magics from both the zenko and nogitsune ends of the spectrum, is equally as conniving as Tajima was at that age, or so he claims.

“And I’m sure you were ‘very proud’.”

“You’ll come to understand the joy of seeing your own traits manifested in your younglings in time,” Tajima rebukes with a sly glint in his eye. Sensing opportunity, Souta reaches for his delicate earring—crafted from precious stone and bobbing on an anchored current of Butsuma’s chakra—but overcorrects and tumbles over Butsuma’s shoulder in a flurry of instinctual, but pointless flapping.

Of course, Tajima’s hands are there to catch him and guide him back to his brother’s side.

Madara whips his hair back over one shoulder and crosses his arms. “What worries me is seeing  _ your  _ traits popping up, not mine,” he retorts wryly.

“To malign your own father…for shame!” Tajima cries with faux affront. Though, insofar as his performances go, it’s a lackluster one. He preens his grandchicks’ feathers briefly, then taps his chin with a talon, brow furrowed in thought. “You and Izu—well, you turned out well enough,” he finally settles on.

Shooting his father an unimpressed glower, Madara shifts his attention to the sound of laughter. There by the bole of a blooming sakura tree, Kagami and Ren sit astride his mates’ shoulders, directing Izuna and Tobirama to charge towards each other as mounts in a mock battle. The kits—tall enough to reach Izuna’s hip at the withers—yap and pounce as they choose sides and harry their opponents.

Screeching worse than a harpy, Izuna purposefully steps on Tobirama’s paw and hip checks him so hard they all go down in a pile of wings and limbs.

Soon their chicks will be old enough to join in the ridiculous games that bind their flock. For now, they’re safer in Butsuma’s more level-headed company.

“You cheated!” Kagami cries, only for his protestation to be summarily muffled under Izuna’s hand and Itama’s belly.

As he looks to the clear blue sky, Madara can’t imagine a more charmed life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This fic was such a fun adventure. <3 If you are interested in participating in the next Choose Your Own Adventure fic, stay subscribed here and I'll post an announcement when it starts.


	38. Fun announcement, not a chapter

For those of you still subscribed to this story for the announcement of the next CYOA........ _it's here_! lolol

**Click the poll below to vote on which of 5 Founders-based stories pique your interest for the next CYOA event.** ^_^

**[CLICK HERE FOR THE POLL](https://href.li/?https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScV7aC2L8RffIOxCeFrhN20sO1OxWVVvODCejsJNCh5FXp8Lg/viewform?usp=sf_link) **

This time around the format will be a little different. The choices all have a starter chapter already, which I will continue in a CYOA according to how you folks vote. Announcement/poll updates will be on [my Tumblr](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/), but the fic will be posted on AO3 with the options to vote. Good luck!

(Only vote once, please.)


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